First Impressions
by Adelie P
Summary: Lothíriel of Dol Amroth and Éomer of Rohan are thrown together after the War of the Ring, and it doesn't go well. Misunderstandings, rash judgements and misdirected resentment in a tale as old as time.
1. Prologue

**Prologue: Ill Qualified in Every Respect**

Lothíriel turned west and looked up to the towers of the Citadel, and the shadowy slopes and snow-capped peak of Mount Mindolluin beyond. She held her body still and her arms flew out as she found her centre of gravity, bending her knees and stretching them, ever so slowly, carefully, a tiny shift in her ankles… There. Just so. She waited for the rope to stop swaying, waited for that moment when it would feel easy, almost as if she could stand on the air itself, and the air had never felt so solid as that day, in the warmth and promise of the sudden spring. Then she lifted one bare foot, pointing and flexing it out in front of her - elegance was key - and took a careful step, feeling the rope give way - a bit more than she would have preferred -, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she grasped the rope between her toes. She took another step.

Below, in the yard, the boy gasped and she quickly suppressed a twinge of triumph. Experience and some well-deserved bruises had long ago taught her the dangers of untimely glee. She took another step, her confidence growing. She held out longer now, balancing on one foot for five counts, lifting her leg up ever higher, and then slowly lowering it outward making ready for the turn.

"Lothíriel!"

The appalled voice broke her concentration and she felt her back stiffen, the sudden shift of her muscles causing the rope to sway and her grip to falter. She bent her knee quickly, and the rope swayed more violently - too slack; she had known it would be too slack. In an instant she felt her right foot slip and whatever hope was lost. Arms flailing she tried to lunge for the rope and missed. With a cry, half shocked and half indignant, Lothíriel gave into the fall, raising her arms to protect her head.

She landed -unceremoniously but rather fortunately- in one of the prized rosebushes surrounding the statue of Aglahad, nineteenth prince of Dol Amroth. There she lay still for a moment, under the stern marble gaze of her great-great-grandfather. Her head was spinning and she took a few deep breaths before testing her limbs. There seemed to be no major damage. Her injured pride, perhaps. With a wince she proceeded to struggle her way out of the bush's thorny embrace, all pretence at grace forgotten.

"Lothíriel!" said the voice, scandalised now. She looked up to see Aunt Ivriniel, who had appointed herself her chaperone and took her duties much too seriously, striding towards her. Only now did Lothíriel notice she had a rather larger audience than she had expected. Most of their small household was gathered in the passageway leading to the kitchen, the cook, scullions and her maid, their faces a mixture of relief and amusement. She could not resist sweeping them a theatrical bow, as she had seen clowns at the fair do after their artful antics would invariably end in even more artful falls. "Lothíriel, comport yourself at once! What display is this?"

"I'm not hurt, thank you, Aunt" said Lothíriel. She grimaced as she tried to brush some dirt of her leggings and removed the offending thorn from her palm.

"Not hurt?" Aunt Ivriniel caught her niece's chin, and turned it up towards her. Lothíriel saw the sharp dark eyes as they swept across her face assessing the damage and then narrowing in vexation. "You are lucky you did not lose an eye. You're covered in scratches, Lothíriel. It is really most unbecoming."

Aunt Ivriniel was prone to hyperboles, at least when it came to her niece's regrettable appearance, but even Lothíriel had to acknowledge that the burning in her face was not all from embarrassment. She brought up her hand to her brow and felt a trickle of wet blood. Accursed bush. "It will heal," she shrugged and shook free of her aunt's grip.

Aunt Ivriniel was not so easily appeased. "Whatever will your father say? What possessed you, child?"

Lothíriel pursed her lips. The memory still rankled. "Eradir would not believe I could do it."

The young groom, who had challenged her so brazenly not an hour ago and then fled behind the olive tree when he had heard her aunt approach, piped up. "And I was right. You couldn't."

"Only because I was interrupted," Lothíriel shot back.

"You fell," said Eradir. "An Elf would not fall."

Unlike Lothíriel, the boy had been in Minas Tirith during the Battle of the Pelennor and ever since Lothíriel and her aunt had arrived in the city, his stories had been full of Elves and Dwarves and Mûmakil. Mind you, she still did not believe half of it.

"I was doing it," said Lothíriel fiercely. "Everyone saw it." She folded her arms across her chest and glared at her audience, silently daring anyone to disagree.

"I should not be so proud of that if I were you," said Aunt Ivriniel. "You are almost a grown woman now, Lothíriel. You cannot make such a spectacle of yourself."

"A minute ago you said I was a child still," pointed out Lothíriel, peeved as always by the inconsistency of adults.

"A minute, a day, three months. I despair of you, niece. You would think you would take your life a little more seriously after this past year."

As Aunt Ivriniel fussed, picking a few stray petals out of her niece's long dark curls -incorrigible, just like their owner, she muttered- Lothíriel let her eyes drift up. The rope was still now, taunting her, just out of reach at seven feet above the ground, tied between the stone neck of the swan in the centre of the fountain and the high windows of the gatehouse overseeing the courtyard. Lothíriel had taught herself to walk the tightrope as a child, enamoured with the mummers from Umbar and further east, but the strain and duties of the past few years had cut into her practice time and cost her some of the easy grace she had acquired in her youth. Still, a challenge could not go unanswered. Especially if that challenge came from an obnoxious, puffed up stableboy who had said no one would confuse Lothíriel for an elven princess in a million years. She had to defend the honour of her family, after all. Her father would understand.

Then again, perhaps not.

The same stableboy was now regarding her with a satisfied smirk. "You look awful, Loth," he said.

Her aunt swivelled around at the use of the nickname, skirts rustling, and raised one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows at him.

"I mean, er, my lady princess." Eradir hastily executed a clumsy bow. One look from Ivriniel had always been able to achieve what Lothíriel could not have even if she spent a full afternoon glowering. It was a neat trick; and one she was quite eager to learn herself.

"Be off with you," said Aunt Ivriniel now, shooing the boy. "Doesn't Master Halbered have some task for you at the stables?"

"There are only so many times you can muck out stalls with no horses in it," said Eradir, shuffling his feet.

"Then you may assist Eireth with the preparations." Ivriniel gestured at their housekeeper, who nodded grimly. "There is plenty to be done to keep you from the evils of indolence, boy. At least for today."

"Preparations?" asked Lothíriel as Eradir disappeared into the kitchens. "Are we expecting visitors?"

Aunt Ivriniel started and then smiled, led her niece over to the fountain and sat down on the stone edge. Her full blue skirt as if by magic arranged itself just so that it fell prettily all the way to her ankles. Even at age seventy-one, there was no denying who was the true Princess of Dol Amroth.

"We had a report from the Guard of the Citadel just now. The host has returned. They will set up camp on the Pelennor tonight, and tomorrow Gondor shall finally receive its king."

Lothíriel's breath caught and she felt a flush creeping up her cheeks. "Father is back?"

"Yes, he is back. And probably expecting to find his daughter unscathed - the credulous fool."

"And Elphir, Amrothos, Erchirion?" asked Lothíriel, ignoring her aunt's jibe.

"They will all be in the city tomorrow."

They had come! It was truly over! She laughed and embraced her aunt as she had when she was young, dancing from one foot to the other and almost bowling the woman over in her ardour. Somewhat to her surprise, Aunt Ivriniel held her tightly for a moment before letting go.

"Come, little terror. Let's get you cleaned up and select a gown for the coronation tomorrow. See if we can salvage this mess," she added, falling back into her usual condescending tone.

"Oh, but I cannot wait," said Lothíriel, quite earnestly. There was absolutely no way that she would be content to sit and stare out of her window for another restless night. Her patience had already been tried beyond all reasonable limits when her father had failed to invite her to the festivities at the Field of Cormallen. She bit her lip, kissed her aunt's cheek and hurried across the courtyard.

"Lothíriel?" She had already dashed out of the front gate of their towerhouse. "Lothíriel, where are you going? You're not dressed! Lothíriel, your shoes!"

Her aunt's cries followed her as she rushed down the winding streets, the stones hard and hot under her feet. She found the pavement all but deserted, but the houses and inns were bustling and alive. The air was filled with the scent of fresh-baked bread, saffron buns and sweet-meats. Wherever the walls were cracked or breached, reminders of the siege and the great battle fought on the Pelennor, they had been covered up by garlands and strings of coloured glass lanterns, gossamer silks from the south and the bright banners of the returning noble houses.

Lothíriel halted on the fifth level, where the wall was lowest. In the distance, on the west banks of the Anduin, she could now make out the sprawling camp and the bright pavilions of the returning armies. Six long months it had been since last she had seen her father and brothers, and for most of those months she had believed she might never see them again. Instead they had saved the world and returned to witness the dawn of this new age. For a moment she thought she was going to cry, then she laughed at her own sentimentality and continued to run. Only when she passed through the entrance some ten minutes later, did she notice the strange silence that had descended on the city of Minas Tirith. The buzz of celebrations had yielded to a laden expectation, a final calm before the return of the king.

* * *

 **Disclaimer and Author's Notes for the Curious**

 _This story follows book-verse. It will be ever so slightly AU here and there because of research fails, botched attempts at Sindarin and just blatantly going against facts (although if you have not spent hours perusing maps and are not familiar with HoME and the Appendices you may not even notice). Most notably, Lothíriel is two years younger than her birth year in the appendix suggests, because I had to mess with timelines a little for the story to work._

 _This story will be split in three parts, set in 3019, 3020 and 3021 of the Third Age respectively. At the moment, the prequel ("First Impressions") is complete. The second part ("None of the Usual Inducements") is currently being posted. I have an outline for the third part ready._

 _I am indebted to J.R.R. Tolkien, the true Lord of the Rings and once and future king of Middle Earth, to the fandom and particularly to the fan works around the courtship of Éomer and Lothíriel, many of which have inspired me (my profile has some of my favourites but there are many more wonderful ones out there). This series is the completely out of control result of a momentary reverie in which I realised how cool it would have been had Jane Austen written Middle-Earth fanfiction (the working title I have been using is Pride and Prejudice and Uruk-Hai). All allusions to Jane Austen's works are deliberate, but this is not a crossover and can be enjoyed without any knowledge of her books whatsoever. This story is written for entertainment purposes only._

 _Constructive criticism and suggestions for improvement are very welcome._


	2. Ill Qualified in Every Respect

Every step that took the host closer to the White City of Gondor filled Éomer with dread. More so than during their desperate march on the Black Gate, and this caused him to be more than a little annoyed with himself. It had been six weeks since the Battle of the Morannon, but the memories still haunted his dreams. In hindsight he was happy that at the time he had not fully understood just what they would be facing, because if he had known, he might not have had the heart to lead his men there. But he had not known, and Aragorn, his brother-in-arms, had never faltered even when the Nazgûl circled their camp, darkening their thoughts, sending nightmares and despair. So what could he have done but follow the mad King of Gondor (a new and well deserved nickname that Éomer had recently seen fit to add to Aragorn's rather illustrious list of titles - with all love and respect of course)? Then had come the days of celebration, and for a while there had been nothing but relief, joy and lots and lots of ale, which was just as it should be.

But after the euphoria of victory had worn off, Éomer's thoughts had turned to the ruins of the ravaged country left behind when he had ridden east with the muster of the Mark. And these were darker thoughts. He had always been a soldier, and then a king of war inaugurated on the battlefield, and the peace, so dearly won, felt like a dubious reward now that it was here. Swords and spears - all he had ever known, really - would not rebuild the many villages burned to the ground by the armies of Saruman, nor feed his people in the years to come. He harboured no illusions. The victory against Isengard and Barad-dûr had come at great cost to Rohan, and they would be lucky to salvage even a tenth of their herds and harvest. It would fall to him to restore the land, a duty he had never expected to be on his shoulders. From the time he had joined his first éored, he had been proud to be his people's champion, but of building and farming he knew nothing at all.

"You seem somber, my friend," came the calm voice of Imrahil beside him. The Prince of Dol Amroth had planted his banner next to the white horse of Rohan on the battlefield, and they had grown closer still as they travelled the long road home together with the remainder of the cavalry, while the bulk of the force had gone by ship.

"You must find me dull company today, Imrahil. Forgive me, I was lost in thought."

Éomer felt his friend's discerning gaze on him as they continued to lead their horses across the ford. "Your sister remains in the Houses of Healing, I believe," said Imrahil.

"True. But that's not what worries me." The latest reports from Minas Tirith intimated that Éowyn was well on the way to recovery, and also hinted at some more disquieting developments that Éomer had chosen to ignore so far.

"What then could worry Éomer King?"

Éomer flinched at the title, and then had to laugh at himself. "Éomer King worries Éomer Eomundsson. Or the other way around; I'm not quite sure," More soberly he added: "I'm not the king my people expected."

Imrahil looked at him with a frown. "Perhaps not, but you certainly have their love. After all, they followed you even to Mordor."

"Yes," said Éomer, feeling proud and a tiny bit guilty at the same time. "And I hope to lead them somewhere more pleasant next."

"An appropriate sentiment," said Imrahil. "I feel much the same."

They clambered up the western bank, aiding their horses back onto dry land. Spring showers had caused the river to rise since last they had come this way, and though the water brought relief to the desert land, it had made the crossing more difficult. Éomer grimaced at the squelching sound his wet boots made as he swung himself back in the saddle. It was a good thing it was such a warm day.

"I suspect the war has been hard on both our lands," said Imrahil after a few minutes. "It will take time to rebuild what we have lost."

Éomer nodded. "I fear for Rohan in the winter to come. There is so much to be done that I do not know not where to begin." He halted. He did not want to seem weak, and after all the years of treachery and double-dealings at the court of Edoras he was still hesitant to confide in any other man. "I don't even know what peace is supposed to look like," he muttered finally.

"It has been a while for me as well, but I seem to remember it is not all that bad" said Imrahil, smiling and gesturing at the merry parade of people behind them, splashing through the river. "Do not worry too much about the years to come, Éomer. You have the will, and your people's trust. The rest is easily learned."

"You are right, of course." He just had his doubts whether he would be any good at anything not regularly involving the cutting down of orcs, but he suspected a King could not always be doing that. He sighed as he spurred Firefoot to a gentle trot. "I suppose I am just starting to realise defeating Sauron was only the beginning."

"A very glorious sort of beginning, though" Éomer turned around in his saddle to see Amrothos riding up behind them. He could not help gritting his teeth. He respected and loved Imrahil and his family, and Amrothos was a fine warrior, whose dry humour and outrageous tales had livened up many nights around the campfire, but somehow the youngest Prince of Dol Amroth managed to be flippant even while completely sober, in the harsh light of day. "Father, what have you been saying to our noble friend? I have never seen him look so dour."

"Amrothos," Imrahil acknowledged his son's presence. "I am happy to see you are putting your lessons in diplomacy to good use, as always."

"Ah. I interrupted another strategic council with our ally from the north?"

"Just a pleasant conversation," said Imrahil.

"You will have to forgive me, father, for I bear happy tidings. We are but an hour's ride from Minas Tirith and will stop soon to make camp in sight of the city."

"Those are happy tidings," said the Prince. "You may behave better with the eyes of the city on you."

Amrothos chose not to comment. "Also, King Elessar was hoping to speak to you before making camp. Something about the ceremony tomorrow, but I am afraid I only took passing interest."

"Of course," said Imrahil resignedly.

"Do not worry. I will keep our dispirited friend company." As Imrahil rode off, Amrothos guided his horse to trot beside Firefoot. "So, what ails the king of Rohan?"

Éomer had no desire to discuss his apprehensions with this Prince of Dol Amroth. "Nothing."

"Are you pondering the weight of your crown, my lord?"

Unfortunately, as Éomer had found before, Amrothos could be as discerning as his father if he was determined to make the effort.

"The ceremonial mantle is more worrying," said Éomer in a deadpan voice. "The Kings of Rohan traditionally wear a coronet only."

"Interesting," said Amrothos, his eyes glittering. "The fabric is heavy then?"

"It hides an inner coat of mail." Éomer did not feel the need to mention that it was so made after one of his ancestors was almost run through by a spear courtesy of an overly enthusiastic rider during the harvest competitions. Amrothos was already far too amused by Rohirric history and customs.

"That does sound cumbersome."

"Indeed."

"Well, friend, Dol Amroth has your back," said Amrothos. "You know, in case you topple over."

Éomer shot him a glare. "There's no need. I am sure my advisors will be happy to instruct me in its wearing once I return to the city." He tightened the reins on Firefoot, who was getting restless seeing the open plains before him. "And in my other duties," he could not resist adding, feeling like a petulant child.

"Ah yes, duties. I suppose some of us are more eager than others. My father, for example, can obviously not wait to return to work and would even now abandon his family and friends to ask his King for further chores."

That was not an entirely fair assessment of the Prince of Dol Amroth, who was not in the least bit adverse to revelries and could still drink his sons under the table if he chose to - although perhaps not his youngest. "I thought you said Aragorn sent for Imrahil?"

"I made that up. I felt in my heart you needed rescuing."

Of course. "You were wrong."

"I suppose I may have been projecting. Ah well," Amrothos looked not in the least bit guilty. "I did have an ulterior motive. I have come to extend an invitation. I was hoping you would grace me with your company tonight."

"Oh. Any particular reason?"

"I merely hope to involve you in something scandalous before we run out of opportunity."

Éomer turned to his companion, who had an innocent smile plastered on his face. A smile Éomer had learned to mistrust. "And why would I wish to start my rule by causing a scandal?"

"I have some suggestions. Considering what I overheard just now I am not sure how much you know about this in Rohan, but there are other pleasures than killing orcs in this Middle-Earth."

"If your endeavour is to change my mood, you are doing an uncommonly fine job," said Éomer, feeling his temper getting the better of him.

"I apologise, Éomer," said Amrothos, disarming him. "My desire to cheer you is genuine. After all, you did save my life."

That was true. Éomer remembered coming to his aid at the battle outside the Morannon, when one of Amrothos's flashy and elegant flourishes had backfired and left him on the ground about to be skewered by a particularly nasty looking orc of the black tower. Éomer had rushed in and driven it back, allowing Amrothos time to regain his footing. Whatever could possess a man to go for show and display in such a desperate battle was beyond him. And it was not as if Amrothos lacked true skill; like his father he was tall and strong, with a natural grace that perhaps went back to their rumoured elven heritage.

"You were certainly in need of it. That was an utterly foolish move to attempt." The words were out before Éomer remembered Gondorians preferred more circumspection in their conversation.

However, Amrothos did not seem offended in the slightest. He grinned. "I was certain we were all going to die there. I wanted to look good while doing so."

He could hardly have done otherwise. Amrothos, with his dark hair, easy smile and the grey eyes of Númenor, was an eerily handsome man. The ladies at Cormallen had loved him and, in fairness to the youngest Prince of Dol Amroth, he had loved them back, and quite graciously too.

"Perhaps I should have let you," Éomer said, still not completely placated.

"But you did not, and now I owe you a life-debt," said Amrothos. "And in Dol Amroth there are only two ways to settle such a debt. Either you accept me into your service and I shall be your constant shadow until I am able to perform a similar life-saving feat for you."

"Spare me," said Éomer.

"I thought you might say that. There is another way, more simple and pleasurable, that I don't doubt will be more to your liking. It certainly is to mine."

Éomer narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "And that involves?"

"I will show you tonight when we make camp, my friend."


	3. The Groundwork of Disapprobation

Dusk had long fallen by the time Lothíriel reached the encampment. In the distance the night lights of Minas Tirith burned brightly, and the air smelled of honeyed wine and smoke.

Lothíriel halted as she observed the bustling campsite, the men running to and fro, their drunken laughter and the colours of the banners softened by the evening glow. Now that she was here she needed a plan. Her old and therefore rather tight blue tunic and brown leggings were ideal for dancing on the rope, but her father, the noble Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, might be less than pleased to see his daughter parading around a host of men in such attire. Her hair was tangled - impatiently she ran her fingers through it as best she could and tied it back with a bit of ribbon she kept around her wrist - and her brow still smarted from her encounter with the bush earlier. She had been in such a rush to hurry the reunion that she had not stopped to think that with the heat of battle and the rush of victory behind him, her father's quick mind may have bended to court affairs again. And with such affairs came propriety, especially for his youngest.

After some deliberation Lothíriel decided that father was indeed best avoided for now. She backed away from the grand pavilions to the centre of the camp, and made her way to the blue-and-silver tents to the south. They were flying the ship and swan banners of Dol Amroth, and Lothíriel smiled at the sight of them. The three larger ones, she knew, belonged to her brothers, who were generally more indulgent of her escapades.

She kept her eyes lowered as she mingled into the crowded camp, narrowly avoiding a collision with a squire carrying a kettle of hot water. A group of Dol Amroth's Swan Knights were sitting around a fire, passing a flask between them, their whispers interspersed with uproarious laughter. She recognised some of their faces but could not make out what they were saying as she sneaked past them.

She knew Amrothos' tent would be in the back, close to the river ("always make sure you have an escape route," Amrothos had impressed on his sister). Lothíriel had resolved to seek him out first. She had perhaps missed him most of all and, not unimportantly, her youngest brother was the least likely to send her straight home or betray her to her father. Not so much due to sibling loyalty, though there was that, of course, but also because she could fill a library with the dirt she had on Amrothos and he was well aware of it.

As Lothíriel approached the edge of the encampment, the rushing of the river began drowning out the noises of the men. She jumped over a pile of blankets and gingerly rolled an empty barrel reeking of ale out of her path. Typical. There was movement inside her brother's tent and she could make out his shadow. He was leaning on a table with his back to the entrance. He seemed to be dressed and he seemed to be alone. So far, so good. Carefully she pushed the flap aside and entered.

"Amrothos?" she whispered.

The man turned around and Lothíriel immediately registered that this was not her brother. He was just as tall, but broader, with long, curling, almost golden hair hanging loosely down his back, a short trimmed beard and keen hazel eyes. One of the Riders of Rohan, Lothíriel concluded. There were some in the city, those who had been too wounded and worn to march to the Black Gate. They were all the same: loud, light-skinned and boisterous, with melodic voices and proud faces. This one was no exception, except perhaps that he was particularly tall and handsome. He had an imperious look about him and radiated strength in a way that she would have found intimidating had she been anyone but the Princess of Dol Amroth. He was inspecting her with a dark look in his eyes.

"Is this Prince Amrothos's tent?" asked Lothíriel. The Rider raised an eyebrow and she remembered her manners. "Apologies for bursting in, my lord."

"It is indeed his tent," he said, with not a trace of an accent. He took a swig out of the half empty bottle he was holding and kept staring at her.

"How fortunate," said Lothíriel, disturbed by his rudeness.

"He was expecting you?"

"Quite possibly," she said with a grin. "He knows me well."

"Indeed." She felt his gaze slide over her tunic (now almost uncomfortably tight), her leggings (torn and dirty), her bare feet and then lingering on her face. "How old are you, child?" He sounded condescending, and some other emotion she could not place. Anger? But why would he be angry?

"I am no child. I am a woman grown," she answered.

"Indeed," he said again. Perhaps his Westron was rather limited, thought Lothíriel rather uncharitably.

"You are one of the Riders of Rohan, my lord?" she asked, desperate to break the tension.

He nodded.

"We all owe you a great debt," she said, bowing her head. There, her father would be proud.

He muttered something under his breath that she could not understand and suddenly moved towards her. Lothíriel was almost startled into doing a step back, but she stood her ground. Before she had a chance to reflect on what was happening, he had cupped her face with his hand and forced her to look up at him. There were limits to what even a daughter of Dol Amroth would endure, and his relentless inspection was not particularly considerate of the cuts and bruises on her face. She danced out of his reach and just resisted the urge to puff up her cheeks. His glare turned impassive.

"You can tell Amrothos I am not interested."

"Not interested?" she echoed, thoroughly confused by the man's strange behaviour.

"You may tell him we will have to settle the debt another way."

"I shall, my lord," said Lothíriel perforce. "If you tell me where to find him. Or Prince Erchirion. He would do as well."

The Rider raised his eyebrows at that. "Indeed?"

"I try not to discriminate between them," she said with a laugh. "They get jealous."

A look of outrage passed on the man's face. "I knew customs differed in the south," he said in a voice dripping with ice. "But this is beyond what I expected even of Amrothos. You are debasing yourself and making a fool of me. Leave and find some other man's bed to warm."

Lothíriel's mouth fell open but she closed it quickly as understanding dawned on her. Growing up in Gondor as a Princess of the Realm, Lothíriel was officially uninformed but with three older brothers she was far from naive. Especially her youngest brother loved his dalliances, and he was not too particular about them either, falling in love with highborn ladies and tavern wenches with equal abandon. Torn between amusement and mortification Lothíriel was unable to decide how to proceed.

"If he was determined to make such an offer he could at least have tried to tempt me with one of his more attractive conquests," the Rohir muttered.

"Hey," Lothíriel said, insulted. Being mistaken for a lady of loose virtue was one thing, but being mistaken for an undesirable one was simply unacceptable. She drew herself up to full height. "I will have you know that my mother was called the Jewel of the South. It follows that being desirable is my birthright."

The Rider scoffed. "If you had thought to be alluring, you could have washed before you came here."

Tall words from the man smelling of drink and horse. "I would have assumed you barbarians from the north would find a bit of dirt comforting," she retorted.

"Your flattering also leaves something to be desired."

This man was intolerable. He absolutely deserved to be put in his place. A daring mood overtook Lothíriel then and she batted her eyelashes as she had seen other maidens do. "I can flatter well enough, if a man has earned it," she said sweetly.

"And you think Prince Amrothos is such a man?" he said, incredulity evident in his voice.

Lothíriel sat herself down on the cot in the corner and crossed her legs demurely. "At times. When he is not being too inattentive and egotistical."

The Rider's eyes grew wide and Lothíriel wondered what she'd said this time. She sent him a what she hoped to be a dazzling smile and played with her belt. "You believe yourself more worthy of praise, my lord?"

"Amrothos," hissed the rider. It sounded like a death threat and Lothíriel flinched in spite of herself. "This must be some jest."

Was he catching on? "Why would you think so, my lord?" she murmured.

"Because you, _my lady,"_ he said, emphasising the words in a manner that showed he thought she quite clearly did not belong to that category of women, "are the most paltry and unfortunate stripling I have ever found in a soldier's tent."

Lothíriel fought to keep her face blank. "Perhaps Amrothos thought that you would prefer a woman you can easily overpower. Many men do," she said wisely. His eyes were flashing with anger again. She knew she was treading on thin ice, but the game was so unexpectedly delicious that she could not get herself to stop. "It bolsters their ego."

"I think you have already offered sufficient proof that you know nothing of men," the warrior said, crossing his arms.

"I did not realise there was anything to know, my lord." She hesitated, then fluttered her fingers in an elegant gesture and allowed them to rest on her thighs.

Another exclamation in Rohirric. Lothíriel guessed it was a curse. Then the Rider wiped his hand over his face and sighed. "My lady," he said, calmly now. "I have neither desire nor patience for your games. Go, or I shall truly have to remove you."

Being expelled from her brother's own tent? That was not to be borne. Lothíriel got up. "If you are determined to be rude," her voice trailed off as she groped for her next line and she turned around to buy herself time. She took a few helpless steps towards the entrance.

"Wait," said the Rohir close behind her. She felt his hand on her arm, and then he spun her towards him. He held her still and raised his other hand to touch her cheek. Lothíriel froze. This was the moment to confess, she could not carry this bluff any further… but she was spellbound by her own recklessness and his intense gaze. No man, let alone a stranger, had ever assessed her with such shameless impudence. Suddenly he grinned, and his features were utterly changed somehow. He looked young and Lothíriel inhaled sharply. It took her a moment to realise he had let her go.

"Go home, girl. Wash up. And perhaps seek out men more appropriate to your stature next time."

Lothíriel huffed. "Is it common for men to insult a girl's appearance in the Mark?"

"It's common to speak the truth."

"Ha. It is common in Gondor also," she began her final assault. "And Prince Amrothos is of the opinion that I am the prettiest maid in Middle Earth. That is what he told me."

"When you were five and still somewhat cute," she heard a smug voice behind her. She started, took a few steps back in shock and swirled around to see her brother entering his tent. "Lothíriel? Is it truly you?" Her brother smiled as she rushed into his arms, whispering his name. He picked her up, effortlessly, and swung her around, knocking over two empty bottles standing forgotten on the ground. "Goodness, you look awful."

"Hey," said Lothíriel, swatting him in the chest. There were only so many such slights a lady could bear in an evening, even if one of the wrongdoers was her annoying older brother.

"How did you get here?" asked her brother, laughingly catching both her wrists in one hand.

"I walked," she said. "That is, I ran. Away from Aunt Ivriniel." Amrothos groaned. "I decided I was done waiting,"

"You have not changed at all. But it is good to see you, dear" said Amrothos. He turned to his guest. "Éomer, I bring you brandy. From the richest vineyards of Belfalas. It is so strong that my father likes to keep it for medicinal purposes only, but I have always deemed that a complete waste. Nothing settles a life-debt like a bottle of the finest alcohol one's house can offer. Of course we should keep it well away from my sister. Sister, may I present Éomer, King of Rohan?"

Lothíriel held her breath as her eyes found him. The King! She did not know whether to laugh or cry. His face was a mask, but he was clinging to the bottle so forcefully that Lothíriel expected it to shatter at any moment.

"Your sister?" he asked in a low voice.

"Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," said Lothíriel, with a sweeping curtsy that would have pleased even her aunt. "At your service."

The King of Rohan stood perfectly still for a moment, then lowered the bottle onto the table. "At yours," he said finally, inclining his head.

Amrothos had observed their exchange with his normal detached amusement and turned to Lothíriel. "What do you say, Loth? Shall I go and prepare father for the joy of your unexpected arrival?"

Lothíriel bit her lip. "The joy might be too much for him. He has been through a lot, I'm sure. I would not want to overwhelm him."

"I can well understand your hesitation," said Amrothos, while rummaging in the chest near his cot. "But I do plan to sleep at some point, and then where do you expect to go? Lie down by the fire with the soldiers?" He put two goblets on the table and poured the brandy.

"You could offer me your bed."

Her brother pushed a goblet in the direction of the King of Rohan, who accepted it without a glance. "I am flattered that you still have such high expectations of my gallantry," said Amrothos.

"You mistake me. I am simply a firm believer in personal growth."

Her brother laughed at that. "Perhaps you are right. It would not do to worry father unduly and rob him off a good night's rest. But I am afraid you interrupted Éomer and myself partaking in an important and ancient ritual."

Lothíriel looked up at the king, fighting to keep her countenance. "Is that so?"

"No matter, Amrothos," said the king, running his hand through his hair. "We can do this some other time. I am certain you and your sister will want to catch up."

"Éomer, at least finish your drink. I stole this for you especially. Do not make me risk my father's displeasure without at least enjoying the spoils." Amrothos raised his goblet, an inviting smile on his face.

The King looked uncomfortable now, but seemed to find no way out. He nodded to her brother as he raised his glass in turn. Then he emptied it in one swig and replaced it on the table with a bang. Lothíriel's stomach turned. That brandy really was strong, as she had occasion to discover herself after an unfortunate bet.

"The debt is settled," said the King, his face red and looking as if he was about to choke. Then he strode out without a backwards glance.

"I am so glad to hear it," said Amrothos, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. Lothíriel idly wondered just how much of their conversation her brother had overheard.


	4. Self-Sufficiency Without Fashion

If Amrothos had overheard more than he should, he made no mention of it. Instead he regaled her with stories of the war. Her brother was a master at wrapping up and presenting camp life in amusing little anecdotes, making her laugh at stories of incompetent squires and misplaced helmets, and acting as if he was completely unaffected by the whole affair. But Lothíriel was a master at reading her brother and she could see his eyes darken as he glossed over the carnage on the Pelennor Fields, the long nights of watches and restless sleep with a sword in hand. In the end it was not his words, but the shadow on her brother's face when he spoke of the Nazgûl circling the army for the endless march north that had caused her to shiver.

"These are no stories for nighttime," her brother had said abruptly. He had put her up in his cot while claiming a space on the ground by the fire for himself, as she had known he would. Amrothos might protest when it was his little sister who called upon his gallantry, but it was too ingrained in him to go against it completely. He kissed her brow, and Lothíriel, happily ensconced in the noises of the camp, slept almost at once.

The following day woke Lothíriel at first light. She did not immediately realise where she was, trapped in unfamiliar blankets smelling of mud and men. Then her headache - Amrothos had relented and let her at the brandy - reminded her of last night's events and she mewed into her pillow.

"I almost did not believe it," said a calm voice. Lothíriel opened her eyes, blinking against the dawn, to see her oldest brother sitting on the table and enjoying a healthy breakfast.

"Elphir?" she asked, joy creeping through her hangover.

"The same," he responded. "Will you have some tea, sister?"

Lothíriel graciously accepted. As Elphir filled a cup with the steaming hot drink for her, she stretched and somewhat reluctantly climbed out of the comfort of her bed. The air was chill this morning, even inside the tent, and she was wearing only her thin cotton shift. She opened the chest Amrothos kept next to the bed, and looked for something to wear. Her brother had a rather disgraceful excess of clean shirts, Lothíriel found. She shrugged one on over her head before Elphir could object, then rummaged around for a pair of breeches. They were far too long, of course, and she rolled up the legs as best she could.

"Do you have some pins, perhaps?" she asked her brother, who was observing her with a bemused expression.

"Not on me," he answered with a mock-regretful face.

He handed her the cup and she took it, grateful for something warm to hold and inhaling the fresh spicy scent. "Calamint," she said happily. The herb grew only in the inlands of Befalas and she had been missing it ever since they arrived in Minas Tirith.

"We have been well provided for," said Elphir with a smile.

Lothíriel had never doubted that. Aunt Ivriniel and Galweth, her brother's wife, had run their family's lands in the absence of the princes, and had also been in charge of supplying the host. They had sent many shipments of food, cloth and wine to Cormallen, and Galweth had always believed in doing rather too much than too little. Lothíriel got along as well with her sister-by-marriage as was possible for such opposing characters. Galweth was diligent, dutiful and had taken to running a castle such as Dol Amroth like a duck takes to water. She did not enjoy games, acrobatics or simply and languorously wasting time like Lothíriel, and Lothíriel had found it difficult to get to know her well. Still, it was impossible not to respect her; and Elphir's love for her was obvious to the whole family, which also endeared her to Lothíriel.

"Did Galweth come to the city with you?" asked her brother now, his eyes shining. "And Alphros? Are they well?"

Lothíriel laughed and wrapped an arm around her brother's waist. "The return of the king could not keep even Galweth at home. Yes, they are both here and eager to see you, although Alphros has mainly been asking when we can go back on the ship again. And you will have to call him Captain Alphros, or he will not answer."

"Taken to sea-faring like a true scion of Dol Amroth, then," said Elphir.

"More like a Corsair. He kept wanting to board other ships. He considers being a pirate much more glamorous than being a prince," said Lothíriel. "I think he needs a stern, fatherly influence."

"As do you, perhaps?" said Elphir. He handed her some bread and she took it gratefully. Only now did she realise she had not eaten anything since yesterday afternoon.

"I am a lost cause, as they say," said Lothíriel with her mouth full.

Elphir grimaced and continued to interrogate her about his wife and son, apparently taking as much delight in the dreary details of every day family life as she did in stories of wartime heroics. Just when Lothíriel poured herself a second mug of tea, Amrothos returned. He looked fresh-faced and well-rested, which Lothíriel thought thoroughly undeserved.

"Ah, you are awake. I am here to escort you to our father."

Lothíriel nearly dropped her tea at the announcement. "What? Amrothos, you traitor."

"And here I thought a fast reunion was the whole point of this excursion," said her brother grimly. "Come, Loth, you didn't think to hide from him for the rest of the day, did you?" He paused and Lothíriel saw him take note of her attire. "That is my favourite shirt."

"Oh come on," said Lothíriel, pushing back the sleeves. "It looks identical to all the others."

"They are all my favourite shirt," said Amrothos with a petulant frown.

"Well, my clothes are dirty and I needed something to wear," Lothíriel said practically. "You are welcome to any of my dresses if the fancy ever strikes you."

Amrothos looked momentarily intrigued, then decided to drop the subject. "Can I have some tea as well?"

After Lothíriel had finished her breakfast - which she had deliberately stretched longer than necessary, with the result that she was now uncomfortably full - Amrothos led her back to the centre of the camp. Around them, men were laughing, saddling their horses and polishing their armour, ensuring all looked their best for the parade. Lothíriel noticed many Rohirrim among the Swan Knights and was surprised they seemed to get on so well. Although, considering her father's forces comprised the best cavalry in all of Gondor, perhaps it was not so surprising. Horses were well loved in Dol Amroth, and the Rohirric steeds were legendary.

As they approached the leaders' tents, Lothíriel looked out to catch a glimpse of their new King, but did not see anyone who would match her brother's awed description. She did spot the man whom she now knew to be the King of Rohan sharpening his sword while giving some brusque orders to a yellow-haired boy half his size. Did he expect to still encounter orcs in Minas Tirith? He was engrossed in his task and did not notice her, although some of her father's knights recognised and acknowledged her with a bow and a grin.

Far sooner than she would have liked, Amrothos gave her a little push inside the grand pavilion flying the Dol Amroth banner. Almost tripping over the legs of her breeches, Lothíriel stumbled in but managed to turn her fall into something resembling a curtsy. She looked around, taking in the skins and tapestries, simple wooden furnishings covered with rolls of parchment and empty silver dishes. Of course, in the middle of the tent stood Prince Imrahil, commander of the Gondorian armies.

Also, her father.

He was dressed in his most splendid finery and looked every inch the returning war hero. "Lothíriel," he said. His mouth was grave and disapproving, but Lothíriel saw the light in his eyes and decided lavish affection was the better part of valour. With a happy "Father!" she flew into his arms and he embraced her with a sigh. She buried her face in his chest and for some time refused to let go, until her father gently kissed the top of her head and led her to a chair. For a while, they exchanged pleasantries and affections and Lothíriel almost believed she had gotten away with it all when Imrahil cleared his throat and put his impassive Prince-of-Dol-Amroth face on.

"Now, my daughter, pray tell me how you come here all by yourself."

"I walked," she gave him the same answer as she had given Amrothos the night before.

"Lothíriel, you know you cannot walk abroad without an escort."

Lothíriel pursed her lips. "Our entire army is camped out here. How much more protection could I possibly need?"

"We may have won the war, but I suspect it will be some time before all the roads are safe again," said her father. "Besides, it's not just your safety I am concerned with at the moment."

"Is it my virtue?" Lothíriel teased.

"Your reputation. No, do not roll your eyes at me. I know your arguments, but Lothíriel, even if I agreed with them, you are exposing yourself to censure by showing up in an army's camp late at night, all by yourself."

Lothíriel looked at her father, eyes as wide and innocent as she could make them. "Surely it is not so very bad to be impatient to see my own father and brothers, to be reunited with my family, whom I have had to miss for so long…" _To bait the King of Rohan, just a little, because he deserves it,_ she added silently in her head, but she did not even dare think it too loudly. It was nothing that should be brought to the attention of her father, ever.

"Surely it is not so very bad to have patience for one more night, or at least think to take an escort," returned Imrahil practically. "You must be sensible about these things. Why, you are almost of an age to be married."

Lothíriel froze and felt her heart skip a beat.

"Do not look so alarmed, my dear. I don't think you are quite ready. However, it is something to keep in mind." Her father looked thoughtful and Lothíriel sensed his thoughts were wandering off in dangerous directions that she considered inconvenient at the least.

"I just missed you so, Ada. How can I even think of other men when all I want is my father and brothers home again?" entreated Lothíriel.

Imrahil was not normally impervious to this kind of sweet-talking, but seemed determined to stay on track. "Lothíriel, you simply cannot do whatever comes to mind in any particular moment. You have a duty to me, and our family, to keep yourself safe, both from dangers and the wagging tongues of others.

Lothíriel was familiar with this speech. "Yes, father."

"You are not listening."

"I am listening," Lothíriel insisted. "I just don't think I agree."

"It does not matter if you think you agree, as long as you act on my words and not your personal misgivings."

"Yes, father."

Her father studied her. "And how did you get those scratches?"

"Saving Middle-Earth," she answered. "How else does one sustain injuries around here?"

"Lying to one's father comes to mind," said Imrahil grimly.

"I fell into a plant," muttered Lothíriel. She slumped down into her chair and crossed her ankles.

"You fell into…? Never mind, I do not think I want to hear the details."

If her father did not wish to hear them, Lothíriel knew better than to volunteer any.

"I had hoped to able to introduce a Princess to my friends. But I suppose I will have to settle for my wayward daughter," said Imrahil, with a resigned look. In spite of everything, Imrahil did not often chide his offspring ("That is the problem," raged Aunt Ivriniel. "They would have all been better served with an occasional hiding.")

Lothíriel compressed her lips and remained silent.

"Do not mistake me," said her father now, rising and kissing her brow. "I am glad to see you healthy and in good spirits. Come. You can ride with your brother."

And so Lothíriel joined the procession that saw the returning King of Gondor to the gates of his city, sharing a horse with her youngest brother, somewhat hidden behind the main force of the cavalry ("Am I thus relegated to the back row of the lastborn, again?" Amrothos had said in mournful tones, but Lothíriel knew her brother to be somewhat indifferent to pomp and circumstance and would not truly mind giving up his place with the other Captains.) Her father, however, was in a place of high honour to the King's right, and Lothíriel felt proud because he looked powerful and dignified even next to the imposing King of Rohan. With them also went Elladan and Elrohir ("sons of Elrond Peredhel of Imladris," whispered Amrothos) who were beautiful beyond description, so that Lothíriel was tempted to reject the legends of her Elven heritage outright; Mithrandir in white robes belying his name; and the four _Periain,_ the Halflings who had saved the world and Lothíriel hoped very much to be introduced to later.

King Elessar looked, well, _kingly_ , thought Lothíriel, and a legend even among all these ancient tales come to life before her. Gondor had been waiting for centuries upon centuries to see the line of Kings restored to the throne, but they had never expected it; much like everyone knew the world would end some day, but it was hard to envision it do anything but endure forever. Yet within a few short months all she had known had been overhauled. First Boromir, the hope of the people, had been lost, then the Steward himself. Lothíriel knew she should have mourned them, but it was difficult. Even though the Lord Denethor had been her uncle, he was never more than stern eyes in a noble face to her. Her cousin Boromir had been splendid, but she could not remember the last time they had exchanged words. Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos had spent many summers in Minas Tirith when they were younger, but by the time Lothíriel was old enough to be received at court, war had been upon them and the roads and waters were too dangerous to travel for leisure or courtesy visits. And both her cousins were much older than her, men grown and tried in battle by the time she walked her first steps. So it was that she knew them more by reputation than familiarity, and although Faramir had welcomed her and Ivriniel to the city with all affection due to his last remaining kinswomen, they had not spent much time together in these busy past few weeks.

Now Faramir was kneeling before the King, and restored to his office a mere moment after surrendering it. And when Faramir asked the assembled hosts and people of the city to accept Isildur's heir as the King, Lothíriel cried yea along with everyone else. After the crowning, the host followed the King into the city. Amrothos kept perfect control of his mount as the parade made it through the crowds, towards the Citadel. Lothíriel gazed at the throngs of people, impressed almost in spite of herself. When they reached the sixth level, Amrothos made to subtly veer right in the direction of their towerhouse, so that he could drop her off and wait on their father and King. He had almost separated from the group when a familiar voice cut through the proceedings.

"Lothíriel!" Standing there, looking more imperious than ever, even among the Kings and Lords of Gondor, was Aunt Ivriniel.

An hour and an angry speech later, Lothíriel was splashing around in the tub, luxuriating in the hot water and lavender oil. Despite her misdeeds - and they were many - she was invited to the Great Hall tonight for the feast, pageants and dances to celebrate King Elessar's coronation. As a highborn lady of the court and one of the few Princesses of the Realm, it was simply unthinkable that she would not attend, no matter how much Aunt Ivriniel believed some enforced isolation would do her good. Lothíriel leaned back and closed her eyes as her maid, Maeneth, patiently combed and washed her hair and then helped her out of the tub.

"You are to wear the new blue dress tonight, my lady," said Maeneth while wrapping her in a towel.

Lothíriel did not think much of the new blue dress, but knew how to pick her battles. If she would protest or refuse now, her father might change his mind and lock her in the tower regardless of how it would look to the rest of the court. So she allowed Maeneth to help her into the monstrosity and sighed when she felt the weight of the full skirts land on her hips. As the maid was lacing the bodice, Lothíriel turned to face the full length looking-glass in the corner of her chamber and arranged her features into a pout. "Do you think I am pretty, Maeneth?" she asked.

"You are a Princess of Dol Amroth, my lady. Of course you are beautiful."

Lothíriel could not make out whether the response was sincere or perfunctory, so she continued studying her reflection.

She was short, much shorter than her brothers, having ostensibly missed out on her birthright as a descendant of Númenor due to her premature arrival into the world. Her skin was tanned: dusky-golden (said her father) and dull (according to Aunt Ivriniel). Her eyes, she supposed, were all right, large and stormy grey framed by thick dark lashes (too round and wide-set, said Ivriniel, clucking her tongue). The less said about her figure, the better (her aunt had confided this to her only last week). Lothíriel was lean and athletic, and had no fashionable curves to speak of whatsoever. Her other features were, there was no other word for it, changeable: contrary or genial depending on her mood, with full lips and the tip of her nose tilted ever so slightly.

Lothíriel decided she was sufficiently pretty, no matter the detractors.

As Maeneth arranged her hair, Lothíriel's thoughts drifted to the King of Rohan. They would undoubtedly meet again tonight, and it would undoubtedly be somewhat uncomfortable. In hindsight she felt a tiny prick of shame at her deception. It had been fun and it had seemed safe because he was a stranger and, really, she had not thought about it beyond that, which was not altogether uncommon for her. Yet her brothers' stories had all involved King Éomer somehow - Lothíriel was by now convinced the man either had various doubles or was single-handedly responsible for all their victories on the field of battle - and she had gathered that they had grown rather close. That would make it impossible to escape the acquaintance. Practicing some bland and inoffensive smiles in the glass for the occasion, she deemed herself quite ready and worried no more.

* * *

 _A/N Reviews! Thank you; it's so wonderful to read others are enjoying the story. anthi35, yes, the mistaken identity meet-cute is not exactly original, but it's a convenient way to get our characters to behave beastly towards one another. I'm happy you liked it! Don't worry, this will certainly come back to haunt them both (and Éomer especially). Anna, great to hear you are starting to like Lothíriel already! I am very sorry to make you wait for Éomer's perspective on events, but promise we'll return to him next chapter._

 _Last but not least, many thanks to BlueRiverSteel for beta-ing this chapter for me._


	5. Every Savage Can Dance

"Something else came up during our discussions," said Elfhelm. His Marshal had been relentlessly acquainting him with all that had happened in his absence. Reports of food shortages in the Westmark, the further loss of life among his Riders who had remained in the Houses of Healing, the political movements of Rohan's nobility while the House of Eorl was away from Edoras. "I am afraid you are not going to like this either."

"What?" asked Éomer, already not liking it.

"Well, sire, you are the last of your House."

Éomer could guess where this was going. "I know it well, Elfhelm."

"And you are, as of yet, unmarried."

Éomer gritted his teeth.

"Well, your advisors are just somewhat nervous with you always trudging off to one battlefield after another…"

"We were at war," interjected Éomer sharply. "I was not _trudging off_ , as you put it, I was fulfilling my oath as Third Marshal of the Mark."

"You are First Marshal now, my lord, and our king. To be blunt, your position would be a lot more secure if you could manage to conceive an heir in the near future. Preferably more than one."

"Just in case of … further mishaps?" said Éomer, seething now.

"Éomer," said Elfhelm soothingly. They had known each other for too long for titles to come naturally. "Our losses are recent, I know. Believe me, this was a painful topic for your advisors to discuss and none of them seemed eager to bring it up with you."

His anger left him as quickly as it had flared. "But that does not make it less true, or pressing."

"No, it doesn't," said Elfhelm grimly. "Now, as far as I am aware, there is no particular attachment?"

Some of the beauties of the Mark passed his mind's eye, and there were a fair few. His childhood sweetheart, Adelaide. She was married now, and pregnant with her second child last time he saw her. Willa, an infamous red-haired tease of a woman who had almost as many suitors as freckles. Grimbold's daughters, with their stunning blue eyes and lithe figures. He would have to tell them of the death of their father first, though. His stomach churned unpleasantly.

"No, there is no attachment."

"Some felt that it might be wise for you to consider finding a bride among the noble ladies from Gondor, to strengthen our alliance, and to avoid any further political games back home. Perhaps something to think about while we are here in Minas Tirith."

Unbidden, Éomer remembered a wry laugh and a pair of sparkling grey eyes. He quickly quashed the impulse. He would rather take up arms against a thousand orcs than relive that embarrassing affair. "It is the last thing on my mind," he said, and Elfhelm sighed and excused himself.

Éomer gave Windfola, Éowyn's steed, a final pat on his neck. Apparently, the horse had been fearful and skittish ever since the battle on the Pelennor, and Éowyn did not trust the stable hands in Gondor, with their circumspect and squeamish ways, to take care of him. It was one of the first things she had said to him, with all her normal imperious impatience, and that more than anything else had convinced him she was healed. She was still dwelling in the Houses of Healing, but no longer a patient and now assisting the Warden. She was able to tell Éomer in detail how his wounded Riders were faring and what provisions should be made in order to be able to take them home, earnestly describing the various herbal treatments prescribed by the lore masters of Gondor and offering suggestions for the road. He had finally managed to stop her talking by embracing her fiercely. Seeing her so lively had made his heart soar; it had been so long since she had been so fully present. Then he had casually mentioned Faramir.

"The Steward has been most hospitable."

 _Oh really?_

"He has been most solicitous of the needs of our people."

Well, there would be time to pierce through that shield later.

From the stables, Éomer found his way back to the temporary quarters assigned to him in the citadel. He passed the towerhouse of Prince Imrahil, the grandest of the noble dwellings in the city next to the house of the King, but did not see his friend. No doubt he had been roped into assisting with the feast tonight to celebrate his liege.

In his chambers, Éomer was pleased to discover some refreshments and a change of clothing waiting for him. Dismissing the servant - he did not see why he would need assistance to dress himself - he sat down to the bowl of figs and wine, and pondered Elfhem's news. It was not altogether promising, and he felt he would need to take stock of the damages for himself. With a sigh he unrolled a map and began planning a tour of the Mark.

Evening fell and brought a steady stream of richly clad nobles up to the citadel. Éomer could hear their laughter, the rustle of skirts, and the air was heavy with patchouli, roses and the other flowery scents that the Gondorians seemed so partial to. He noticed he felt uncomfortable. Sure, they had plenty of formal (and rather a deal noisier) affairs in Rohan and he could endure them well enough, but he was a stranger here and not accustomed to the unfathomable Gondorian etiquette. Status and ritual were well-defined in the Mark, but such distinctions were considered impractical for daily use. Gondor's court functioned in a manner quite opposite to that: status and rank were less by the book, but expressed in subtle ways in every conversation. Still, he could hardly avoid a feast at which he was a guest of honour, and would not wish it even if he could. This was Aragorn's moment of glory, after all. So, after a cursory glance in his looking glass to assure himself he would not embarrass his sister, he made his way to the Merethrond. There he was hailed in the embrace of the newly crowned King.

"You look remarkably at ease already, Aragorn! King Elfstone, I should say."

"Ah, you heard my new name then?"

"Indeed I did; very nice. Although, to be sure, I don't see why you need it. You already had an outrageous amount of them."

"I would not give up any," said Aragorn with a grin. "Because all have made me what I am today. But I think only I am obliged to memorise them all, so feel free to use the one that pleases you best."

Éomer was sat at the high table upon the dais, to Aragorn's left, with a radiant Éowyn at his side. Faramir was seated on the other side, next to Imrahil, which was a shame as Éomer had been looking forward to grilling - _no, gently probing_ \- the new Steward. Pippin and Merry had once more insisted on acting as cupbearers, but the remainder of the Fellowship were seated there also, as were the sons of Elrond. Other high-ranking nobles of Gondor and Rohan sat at the long tables just below them, with their ladies who had come to the city. Among them were the younger Princes of Dol Amroth and his Marshal, Elfhelm and Captain, Éothain.

Amrothos was whispering something in his sister's ear and Éomer gritted his teeth. Embarrassing affair, indeed. Not in his wildest dreams would he have guessed the urchin in the camp last night to be related to the Princes of Dol Amroth. He had known of a Lothíriel's existence, of course, but when his friends had spoken of their sister, with fondness and exasperation both, he had imagined her older and, well, more like Éowyn, a dark-haired and proud southern Éowyn, not this slip of a girl who had so consciously and carelessly duped him and showed no remorse at all.

Still, she was the daughter of a great friend, his kin in fact, a Princess of the Realm of Gondor, and he could hardly avoid the introduction that was certain to happen. And she looked the part better now, he had to admit. Clothed in a heavy dress of blue velvet, the split skirt showing layers of silver, her still somewhat unruly hair spilling free underneath an elbow-length blue veil and held in place by a simple silver diadem, she appeared like many of the other ladies present: wealthy, ornate and untouchable. He observed her tugging at the ruffles on the sleeves with a dissatisfied frown between courses. Not a part that came naturally to her, then. He was not surprised. Lothíriel had not struck him as having much enthusiasm for fashion or proprieties.

When the introduction came, as the tables were swiftly cleared away after the feast and the nobles spilled onto the terrace to await the start of the ball, he was ready. Imrahil found him through the crowd, and embraced him with a smile.

"Éomer. Have you met my daughter, Princess Lothíriel? Lothíriel, this is my good friend, Éomer, King of Rohan."

She curtsied and looked him straight in the eye with that mischievous twinkle he had noticed yesterday.

"My lady," he bowed, ignoring her challenge.

"My lord. Always a pleasure to be introduced," she said demurely. Imrahil frowned at that awkward phrase but he did not inquire. Éomer suspected he preferred an _ignorance is bliss_ approach to his youngest children.

"The pleasure is mine," he said. Now what was the formula? "Have you been long in Minas Tirith?"

"My aunt and I arrived some weeks ago," said Lothíriel, quite pleasantly. "We have anxiously awaited everyone's return."

He was then introduced to Princess Ivriniel, who smiled warmly at him and thanked him, as so many had done, for coming to the aid of Gondor.

"I hope this will bring our countries close as they once were again. You will always be welcome here, my lord."

Éomer appraised the woman in front of him. She was obviously one of those women who had only grown more beautiful with age, and the glory of Númenor was alive in her eyes. Still, it was clear from her posture that she was not to be trifled with and she seemed hard as a diamond underneath her soft silks.

Later that evening, Éomer also made the acquaintance of Princess Galweth, the wife of Elphir, a handsome woman with a brisk and easy manner whom he liked instantly. She had sat talking to Éowyn when he joined them, and she had acknowledged him with a smile. He was surprised to find Éowyn, who usually avoided female companionship, chatting easily with her. Of course, Éowyn had not often met women who held a similar position to her own, and they apparently shared an interest in the healing arts (this was news to him). In due course Éowyn was whisked away by Faramir for a dance and replaced by Erchirion and Elphir, who brought his wife a cup of water and settled himself on the bench beside her. Galweth was heavy with her second child and not inclined to dance. Amrothos soon appeared with Lothíriel in tow, eyes alive with some shared merriment.

"I certainly hope King Elessar will ban these pavanes from court at his earliest convenience. How dreary."

"Amrothos is annoyed that it does not allow for much physical contact between the lord and the lady," remarked Lothíriel to no one in particular.

"Thank you for putting that in such crass terms, sister," said Amrothos. "I just prefer my dancing to be a little more energetic. It is quite a bit more enjoyable when your partner is unable to prattle on all through the dance." At Galweth's raised eyebrow he added hastily: "Good conversation can also be charming. But there is a time and a place for such things."

"A moonlit and secluded rose garden, perhaps?" asked Erchirion with interest.

"There is no hope for you, brother," said Amrothos in a pitying tone.

"What say you, Éomer?" asked Erchirion.

Éomer cleared his throat. "Our dances are much more lively than this, but I am not sure if they would please you more. Couple dancing is not common in the Mark."

"How so?" asked Galweth with interest.

He shifted in his seat, discomfited. "I am afraid my people consider it somewhat unseemly." He glanced over at Lothíriel who was keeping her face perfectly straight in a manner that he recognised from Amrothos, and meant she was probably desperately trying to fight off laughter. "Although in recent years the norms seem to have relaxed somewhat."

"Ho, hm," said Amrothos. "And do you ever engage in this unseemly 'couple dancing'?"

Éomer glared at him. "Only when compelled. As you know, my grandmother hailed from Gondor and she was fond of dancing and introduced the custom. My mother insisted both Éowyn and I would learn. I never rated our skills more than tolerable, but I see Éowyn is acquitting herself rather well." Indeed, his sister seemed glued to the dance floor this night and now, rosy-cheeked and breathless from the exercise, had granted a dance to Legolas.

"I see. Perhaps you could be prevailed upon now and ask Lothíriel for a dance. She has been plaguing me for the past ten minutes, but I'm quite worn out." Amrothos had the nerve to look as if he had no hidden agenda.

Damn Amrothos. To refuse now would make him look churlish. "If you would do me the honour, my lady Princess?"

She lowered her head in assent, but not before he had seen her flush. Aha! So it was possible to disconcert her, after all. Nevertheless, she did not hesitate to place her hand on his outstretched arm, and they moved to join the other couples on the dance floor.

"Well, my lady," said Éomer, as they found their place in the procession. "I suppose your brother managed to force you on me after all."

Her face pulled into a frown at his bluntness. He guessed, as he had thought yesterday, that she was not used to it. "Amrothos can be persuasive. And it becomes considerably harder to scorn a woman once she is revealed to be a lady, I understand," said Lothíriel as she reached for his hands and stepped around him.

"Wrong, Princess. It becomes all the more pivotal." That statement seemed to puzzle her and she did not reply immediately. The dance called for the couples to turn and step with their backs to each other and for a few beats Éomer could not read her. When she turned around again, her face was blank and she made a brief comment on the weather to which he agreed without thinking. Whatever her faults, he noted that Lothíriel was a more than accomplished dancer. She moved with a disinterested grace, as if she was following the intricate steps and patterns in spite of herself.

Éomer decided a direct approach was warranted. "I cannot help but wonder, my lady, what possessed you to enter into that charade yesterday?"

She flushed again but quickly recovered herself. "You started it, my lord."

"You know very well what I mean. You must understand that could have ended very badly for you."

"Oh?"

"You did not know who I was." Another guess. He still was not sure whether it was not an elaborate set-up of some kind.

"Indeed I did not," said Lothíriel, twirling. "Are you suggesting your riders would generally have jumped at the opportunity to ravish an innocent maiden?"

His temper flashed at her audacity. "Lothíriel!"

"Perhaps I saw it as an excellent way to quickly progress our acquaintance to a first-name basis," she murmured with a satisfied smirk.

He bit back another curse, vexed with himself for slipping up like that. There was no great need for "my ladies" and such courtesies in the Riddermark, but he had determined not to seem a barbarian in the more subtle court of the Gondorians.

"Do you often sneak around soldiers' camps and play at seducing them?"

Her eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Only when provoked, my lord."

He made a misstep, but she seamlessly adjusted and stepped around him so that none noticed. How different from Éowyn, who would have scolded him and forcefully steered him in the right direction. Still, she made no attempt to ease the tension now between them and soon the music faded out. He bowed, and she curtsied.

"I thank you for the dance, my lord." She disappeared into the throng of guests and he joined Legolas and Gimli and did not see her again.

The evening ended as many evenings had before, except now in the light and comfort of the Great Merethrond, with his friends either passed out from drink and merriment, or singing songs around the fire. Before he retired, however, Éomer resolved to seek out Amrothos. He found him alone on the terrace, probably waiting for a romantic tryst or other to fall into his lap. He clapped his friend on his shoulder and for a while they silently observed the still bustling streets of Minas Tirith.

"What you witnessed yesterday," Éomer began at last, speaking with some difficulty. "It… I had no intentions. Well, it is best never mentioned."

Amrothos drummed his fingers on the railing. "That you mistook my sister, the noble Princess of Dol Amroth and most highborn lady in Gondor, for a common harlot? No, my friend," he showed one of his lazy grins, "no one will hear it from me."

Éomer groaned.

"But for future reference, I would never offer to share a lover with you. You are a grown man, and a King. You can find your own."

* * *

 _A/N Many thanks again to BlueRiverSteel for patiently putting all my wayward commas in their proper place, and her suggestions and encouragement._


	6. What Are Men To Elves And Horses

"How are you enjoying Minas Tirith, Lothíriel?" her father asked. It was two days after the wedding of King Elessar and Arwen of Imladris, and they had just enjoyed a small family meal in the west-facing solar reserved for such informal occasions. Erchirion and Amrothos had excused themselves after dessert to enjoy the summer fairs with some friends, leaving Prince Imrahil alone with his daughter. Aunt Ivriniel was not feeling well these past days and had retired before supper. Lothíriel knew her aunt missed their home at the sea and the voices of the waves.

"Well enough, father," answered Lothíriel. In truth, she found she rather loved the city. Perhaps it was not so beautiful and wild as Dol Amroth, but it offered excitement and anonymity in a way that her home did not, and she enjoyed the freedom from obligations and supervision. Her father and brothers spent long and busy days with the new King; Ivriniel did not have nearly as many willing spies; and Elphir, Galweth and Alphros had lately returned home to look after affairs in their own lands. This left Lothíriel free to explore the gardens around the Citadel, and roam the alleys and markets of the lower levels.

"Good," her father said. "And are you not eager to go back home, like your aunt?"

"I suppose I do miss Dol Amroth," said Lothíriel. "But I spent all my life there and it is good to be elsewhere, for a time."

"I am happy to hear it. You see, I am expecting to make my home in Minas Tirith for this next winter at least, and I will be glad to have you with me."

Lothíriel smiled happily and helped herself to a few grapes from the fruit centrepiece.

"The King, also, explicitly invites you to stay. He hopes you may be of some assistance to him." Lothíriel dropped the grapes and eyed her father warily. His face was calm and impassive as always. "How do you feel about our new Elven Queen?"

Lothíriel chose her words with care. "I do not know; we have barely spoken more than two words to each other. She is beautiful, of course, and seems kind and gracious." Arwen was also otherworldly in a way that both impressed and unnerved her a little, but she did not say that.

"Indeed she is. She is also new to the court and has never had many dealings with the world of men. The King would ask you to befriend her and perhaps help her acquaint herself with our ways."

She fidgeted in her seat, feeling somewhat alarmed. "I am the last person who would be able to tell the Queen anything about how to handle the court of Gondor."

"You do not give yourself enough credit, my dear. To be able to flaunt the rules as expertly as you do, a thorough knowledge is required."

This was exactly how her father had tricked her into years of lessons in comportment, dances and curtseys. But she was not eight years old anymore. "There are a hundred ladies in Gondor who would make a better companion to the Queen than I."

"You are the only unwed Princess of the Realm. As you said, Queen Arwen is both graceful and accomplished, and you may benefit from her companionship as well." Aha. Lothíriel guessed that last statement was a little closer to the truth. "The Queen would make you her maid of honour. It would show great favour."

"Father, I'm not sure…"

Her father held up his hand. "You would also accompany us to Rohan, both as my daughter and as companion to the Queen. In fact, Ivriniel has already ordered a new wardrobe for you, and I am in the process of acquiring a suitable mount for you to ride."

A trifle annoyed by her father's heavy-handed ways, Lothíriel crossed her arms. "Well, it seems all has been decided. Do I get a say in this at all?"

"I thought you would welcome the chance to travel and see more of the world."

"I do. I wish you had seen fit to consult me, though. And whatever would I even say to the Queen. She is so … fair and ageless, and dazzling. I don't quite know how to describe it."

Her father leaned back in his chair with a smile. "I think you would get along quite well. Besides, it will be good for you to spend some time with someone capable of intimidating you, even if just a little."

"Ada, you are all too pleased about this."

"I simply think it is an excellent notion, for many reasons."

Lothíriel huffed. "Ha. I know as well as you that the most important job of a maid of honour is to look young, noble and desirable so that she may find an advantageous match. I hope you know what you are doing when you ask me to impress next to Arwen Undómiel."

oOo

Her father had a reputation as a careful man, but once Imrahil of Dol Amroth made up his mind he did not do things by half. The following afternoon Lothíriel was led before the Queen by an Elven attendant, Tríwen, who admitted her and two other young maidens into the Queen's salon. These were Hethlil, daughter to Hirluin of the Green Hills who had fallen during the Battle of the Pelennor, and Raissel, last and fairest child of Lord Húrin, Warden of the Keys. They were of a similar age to Lothíriel, although Hethlil was perhaps a few years older, and both seemed ill at ease.

Lothíriel sympathised with their misgivings. She herself had shown up for breakfast in a tunic and breeches that morning in a small act of rebellion. Prince Imrahil had made no remark and then pleasantly suggested that she and Amrothos take some exercise that morning and go for a ride, "but be back by noon because Lothíriel will need time to change and refresh herself before meeting the Queen." After eighteen years, Imrahil was no novice at manipulating his daughter.

In the afternoon, Lothíriel had made her way up to the King's House on her father's arm, now dressed in a pale green and preposterously frilly gown, all the way hoping that he would still be prevailed upon to see reason.

"But what are we expected to do?"

"It is not hard, Lothíriel. Simply provide the Queen with some companionship at court. There must be many things for you ladies to keep yourself occupied with."

"Ah. And pray, what are these 'lady things' you are referring to?"

Imrahil had looked uncomfortable. "Surely you know, Lothíriel. You could play music; perhaps practice your harp. Read poetry. Sit at needlework."

Lothíriel had groaned at the last suggestion and briefly been tempted to turn on her heel and run off while she still could. Then her father had looked grim and impressed again on her that it was up to Lothíriel, as the Princess of Dol Amroth, to make their new Queen feel welcome and set an example for the other young women of Minas Tirith.

"Shall I tell your aunt you require further instruction?" he had asked, and Lothíriel blanched at this threat.

She had cast her eyes downward and fallen into step beside him. "There is no need to bother her."

Her father's words echoed in her head now. Truly, she had no wish to be unkind or ungrateful, and it was hardly the Queen's fault that her father was determined to set her on a path that she would have been happy to forego for a few more years. Making the best of it seemed the most reasonable course of action, for now.

The Queen, who had been engrossed in a book, looked up as they entered and smiled pleasantly. Lothíriel had wondered if the affair would be in any way uncomfortable or awkward for her, but judging by Arwen's composure such feelings were simply not part of her repertoire.

"Lady Raissel, Lady Hethlil, I am very glad to have you here." The ladies addressed bobbed a nervous curtsey.

Then Arwen walked over to her and held out her arms in a warm gesture that took her by surprise. "Princess Lothíriel. It is good to see you again."

Lothíriel smiled in spite of herself. "Thank you, my Queen."

"Tríwen, would you get us some lemonade? It is such a hot day, and I am sure the ladies would like some refreshments."

Lothíriel observed the salon with approval. It was light and sunny, overlooking the slightly neglected but lush herb garden. There was a large open window through which drifted a gentle breeze. Beneath the window stood four walnut armchairs, elegantly carved, with splayed seats to accommodate the full skirts that were currently the fashion in Minas Tirith. Lothíriel noted their Queen had not adopted their styles; she wore a simple but stately silver gown that emphasised her tall and willowy silhouette.

"Come, sit, be comfortable!" said their Queen now. "I hoped you would join me for some embroidery? It would be a pleasure to get to know you better."

Hethlil and Raissel flushed and nodded, and Lothíriel bit her lip while her father's warning glance flashed before her mind's eye.

They sat quietly for a while, and Arwen drew out the shy girls little by little by asking them about their life and homes. Lothíriel reluctantly admired the ease with which Arwen conversed, displaying an unfailing interest in all the trite details of their daily routines. Lothíriel, who even when cowed had never been shy, asked her in return about her first impressions of Minas Tirith. So passed that first hour, and Arwen was so gracious and encouraging that Lothíriel suspected they were newcomers at her court all along, not the other way around. This Queen needed no guidance in etiquette and protocol.

That afternoon was historical for another reason. It was the first time that Lothíriel had ever sincerely attempted to make her stitches neat and even. It soon became clear to her that a motivation to succeed would not as a matter of course lead to success. After an hour had passed, the grey leaf she had been working on looked more like an oliphaunt. She had also managed to stab herself twice and even surreptitiously wiped off a few drops of blood on her sleeve. With some envy she observed that Hethlil and Raissel encountered no such trouble and were quick and precise; Arwen's gestures were so elegant and fluid that Lothíriel was reminded of the waves of the sea on a calm summer's day. Arwen had caught her eye a couple of times, her eyes merry and knowing, and Lothíriel decided that keeping up pretence at this point would be futile. With a sigh she put down her work and stared at her efforts with pursed lips.

"You do not care for embroidery, Lothíriel?"

"I…," Lothíriel hesitated. "Nay, my lady. I have never enjoyed it, and I don't seem to have a gift for it, much to my Aunt's despair."

"Well, if you do not care for it, all the better that you should have no gift for it. That would have been a rather poorly chosen talent to bestow on you."

For a fleeting moment Lothíriel thought the Queen might be laughing at her but when she looked up, Arwen seemed as serene as ever. "My aunt seems to think it a suitable occupation even if it does not please me, nor anyone on the receiving end of my creations."

"And what do you think a suitable occupation?"

That made here think. "Honestly, my lady, I don't really know. There are things I love to do, to be sure, but they tend to be categorised as 'distractions' or 'whims'."

"Distractions and whims can be very useful," mused Arwen, "especially if you live for thousands of years. Yet there might be more remorse for time wasted if you have limited years available to you."

"Oh no, my lady, you must be mistaken."

Arwen looked at her with a glance of mild inquiry.

"I mean," said Lothíriel hastily. "I think Men may get more enjoyment out of wasting time than the Eldar. It is, after all, much more satisfying and effective to do so when you know you do not have much of it."

"Interesting. I have lately been dwelling on how precious time can be, but it seems like I need to reevaluate my conclusions."

"That is all right, my lady. You have not been among us very long. I'm sure you'll pick it up in no time."

Arwen laughed. She then ordered the ladies to put down their work, and they indulged in sweetbreads and blueberry tarts and played games such as mancala, and tric-trac, which Lothíriel was much better at, although she was nowhere near as proficient as Arwen and Hethlil. Raissel gave up early and was content to read the others some poetry, with a light and sweet voice, but Lothíriel was not so quick to admit defeat and lost spectacularly to Hethlil at least twice more. The hours flew by until a message came to Arwen from the King, and the Queen bade her new maids farewell.

At supper, Imrahil asked her how the afternoon had been.

"The Queen was very kind, father. And I think you were right. She will undoubtedly benefit from my instruction."

Her father's look of alarm was exceedingly gratifying.

oOo

Over the next month, Lothíriel spent many mornings and afternoons with the Queen, sometimes together with Hethlil and Raissel and sometimes alone. Although she remembered her brief days of freedom with some melancholy and regret, Arwen Undómiel was such pleasant and undemanding company that she could no longer begrudge the arrangement. To her surprise, Arwen was far from merely ornamental at the King's court, and often begged to be excused to be beside the King during councils, and advise him on various judgements and matters of state. On a few occasions, King Elessar had in return taken the time to sit and converse with them and Lothíriel had liked his easy and mild manner. He was, however, often kept away by his duties, in conference with Mithrandir or her father and other lords of Gondor, or spending time with the Companions of the Ring. One day, to Lothíriel's great satisfaction, Arwen invited the _periain_ Meriadoc and Peregrin to tea in the orangery and introduced them to her three maidens. They were merry and pleasant company, and had been happy to satisfy her curiosity about their homeland. In all honesty, it did not sound as grand or exciting as she had hoped, but perhaps, she mused later, that was all for the better. Much more disconcerting was the Lady of the Golden Wood, Arwen's grandmother Galadriel, but the high Elves of Imladris and Lothlórien generally kept themselves somewhat aloof from the people of Gondor, and Lothíriel observed her mainly from a distance. Some other Elves, such as Arwen's attendants, had proved more approachable, and Lothíriel quickly became used to their fair and pensive presence, and their bouts of merriment that she could not always understand.

Some two weeks after midyear's day, Princess Ivriniel departed for Dol Amroth with an escort that had sailed out of Pelargir. She was going ostensibly to be with Galweth during her confinement but Lothíriel knew her aunt was only too happy to escape the city. She had not been her usual vivacious self since before the wedding, and Lothíriel, although rather gratified she had less energy for scolding her niece, felt a little sorry for her. Still, she was not too concerned; the sea air and the company of Galweth and the new babe would soon see her aunt right again. The family saw her off in the Harlond and before boarding, Ivriniel took her niece aside.

"I realise it is probably too much to ask for you to be a support to your father rather than a burden, but I hope you shall keep out of mischief. Do not think me ignorant of your exploits. I know you have been traipsing around the markets unescorted and even had ale in the tavern among the soldiers, like some hoyden. And if these rumours have come to my attention, you may be certain that they have not escaped your father's. No wonder he is contemplating your betrothal even though you are too young and unpolished for such a state." Her feelings of sympathy instantly losing some verve, Lothíriel stiffly kissed her aunt's cheek and bid her safe travels with some relief.

With the ships from the south came another happy change. As promised, Prince Imrahil had acquired a mare for Lothíriel, who had not had a horse of her own since she had finally outgrown her pony at age eleven. She had kept up her riding skills by exercising her brothers and father's steeds instead. When there had last been talk of a new horse for her, her aunt had insisted Lothíriel would learn to ride sidesaddle and get a mount suitable for such a style. Lothíriel had said "all right", and then taken her brother's courser, galloped off, even jumped him, and all this bareback and bridle-less with her legs swung to one side. Her father had been pale and furious and she was not allowed near the stables for a month, but it had convinced Ivriniel that her niece need not learn any more tricks on horseback, nor should she be made responsible for a horse of her own. The trip to Rohan had overruled that old edict. Although at first rather disappointed that she was to be stuck with a palfrey who looked a midget next to her brothers' great warhorses, Lothíriel was swiftly won over by the pretty filly. Her gait was smooth and remarkably swift, and she was happily swept away by her owner's high spirits and seemed to enjoy running along the Anduin as much as Lothíriel. Unfortunately, her father would not let her out riding without one of her brothers present, but Lothíriel oft visited the stables and brought her treats. She named her Suldis, Wind-bride, and rather doted on her.

As the first harvest of the year came along, Lothíriel grew so comfortable in Arwen's company that she shared with her the talk she had with her father just after Arwen's arrival, and his allegation that the Queen might need guidance in navigating the Gondorian court.

Arwen was amused. "I had many years to prepare for this moment. I did in fact do some research."

"Yes, I guessed that." They were seated by the fountain and Lothíriel let her fingers glide through the cool water. The weather had been stuffy as of late, and inspired a hazy laziness in the residents of the royal court.

"Your father is not completely wrong, though. Every day I am struck by differences between Men and Elves, even here where the blood of Númenor still runs strong. Or perhaps especially here. It seems you have managed to develop a rather perplexing amount of purposeless customs. Apparently, I am allowed to lift my dress with my right hand only and I am not to present my husband with anything unless he has gifted me something first."

"Oh yes," spoke Lothíriel in long-suffering tones. "I'm afraid I can no better explain to you the intricacies of court etiquette."

"So do you not have any advice for me then, Princess Lothíriel?"

Lothíriel grinned. "My advice is to assume an air of polite indifference to everyone, regardless of status, and reserve any real conversation strictly for your immediate kin. After all, they are obliged to love you unconditionally."

Arwen sighed at that and Lothíriel clasped her hand over her mouth as she felt her face grow red.

"I am sorry, my lady, that was thoughtless and heartless and really, you should not listen to me."

"Be at ease, Lothíriel, I'm quite well. The early days of bliss are almost at an end and soon, we will travel to Rohan, and my kin will return to their homes. It is a path I chose gladly, but for my father it is hard." The Queen gave a small shake of her head. "But you must be excited for the trip."

"I am. I never have travelled outside of Gondor, and from what I hear the Mark is truly beautiful."

Something was weighing on her mind, however, and the Queen as always picked up on her gloom. "Can it be that you are also troubled?"

"Perhaps a little," she admitted, twisting one of her curls around her finger in contemplation. "We are going to the funeral of a King, a great man my father recognises as kin; but I know almost nothing of him, except that we owe him our lives and freedom. It should be enough, but it is not."

"How so?"

Lothíriel struggled to put into words what she was thinking. "Sometimes, I am just struck by how odd this all is. The men meet on the battlefield and create lasting bonds through suffering, and shared tents and councils, and then suddenly, you are all one big family, sitting in a garden with an ancient elven beauty or the slayer of the Witch King and are meant to get along, talking about the weather and such things."

"I am not sure if I should be gratified that I am considered part of this family, or offended at how you appraise our acquaintance."

Lothíriel blushed. "Apologies, I spoke without thinking. But it does not always work out so well. Lady Éowyn and I have done little more than look suspiciously at one another. And as for King Éomer…" Lothíriel trailed off and decided not to finish that sentence. Her past dealings with King Éomer were best left undiscussed.

Queen Arwen stood and placed her hand on the white tree, which was still in full blossom, its pink flowers soft and fragrant. "We are entering a new age, and you will undoubtedly encounter many more different peoples than in the days of darkness now that the Kingdom has been united again and old alliances are restored. It's all right to give yourself some time to adjust, Lothíriel. Of course a lot has changed for you too."

Arwen's voice was grave and sad, and she seemed to gaze unseeingly into the west, and Lothíriel scolded herself for bringing up such thoughts so shortly before their departure. Eager to distract her queen, she went over possible topics of conversation in her mind, searching for anything not laden with melancholy. She rejected talking of Dol Amroth, so near the sea and the elven harbour, or asking about Arwen's home in Rivendell, the endless waiting of the war torn years, fathers and brothers, and eventually settled on something safe and comfortable: "Do you enjoy riding, my lady? My father just got a new mare for me, and she's wonderfully pretty. Perhaps we could all go for a ride together this afternoon."

Then Arwen looked at her and laughed and said: "Your worries about getting along with your newfound kin seem rather spectacularly unfounded, Lothíriel."

oOo

The next day, King Éomer arrived with his éored. Her father had ridden out to greet him, but Lothíriel remained in the City to help Arwen prepare for the banquet that would be held to welcome the Riders of Rohan. Lothíriel was not sure how she felt about seeing Éomer again. She had met him a few more times before he had left Minas Tirith to return to his homeland. After all, he had the friendship of her father and brothers and was a welcome guest at their house. Amrothos and Éomer seemed particularly - and somewhat curiously - close. Lothíriel had had no conversation with him beyond common and public civilities after that first day, though, and not much of that either, because Éomer did not seem inclined to the light-minded and genteel conversation that was second nature to those raised in the City of Kings. She had, however, on one or two occasions, noticed him staring at her with a dark and veiled look in his eyes and each time wondered what she had done to incur his disapproval now.

The banquet went off splendidly, and all the assorted high guests appeared to be having a good time. Queen Arwen and her maids had seen that the Great Hall was decorated in the colours of Rohan, and thoughtful Hethlil had ensured there would be ale served as well as wine. After the main course had been cleared, a small group of young ladies finally managed to corner King Éomer, their brightly coloured gowns contrasting starkly with the simple tunics he seemed to favour. They appeared to be fawning over him, interrogating him on his homeland with eager eyes and repeating the same praise and gratitude that must be so familiar to him now. "It would have been such a sight when your people rode up at dawn, my lord! And the horns. I wish I could have been here to hear them," one of their high voices carried across the hall. Éomer looked positively pained at that misguided attempt at flattery, and Lothíriel was not wholly unsympathetic, but he could have been a bit more gracious about it. She had noticed he had once again kept himself somewhat aloof from the dancing, spending the majority of the evening with his own riders and his former brothers-in-arms. It was not very thoughtful considering the number of ladies who wished to make his acquaintance. She sipped her wine and let her eyes roam across the Hall, still a little overcome at the splendour of the elves gathered there. Queen Arwen sat with her kin and musicians of Lord Elrond's household struck up tune after tune, enriching the familiar melodies with their unparalleled skill. Suddenly a shadow fell across her face and she looked up to see the King of Rohan looming over her.

"Princess Lothíriel," he said.

She quickly rose to her feet. "King Éomer. Welcome back to Minas Tirith."

He inclined his head and then held out his hand. "Will you do me the honour of the next dance?"

"Um, yes, all right," she said, a bit less than elegant. Bemused, she followed him onto the dance floor. As they took their position, she felt a strange tension between them that she could not quite explain. He knew the steps to this dance better than the one they had shared on the day of the Coronation, but he was silent and looked often away, as if he already regretted asking her. Eventually Lothíriel decided she would stand no more of this.

"You will remember Amrothos. The only redeeming feature of these stately dances is that one is perfectly capable of keeping up a conversation for the duration of them."

"I believed he was of the opinion that conversing while dancing was precisely what made them so unpleasant."

"And you share his opinion, my lord?" said Lothíriel with some amusement.

"By all means, talk if you feel so inclined," said Éomer and his mouth curled up ever so slightly, and again Lothíriel was struck by the change in his features. Now that she had permission, she felt she had nothing to say. She imparted some pleasantries on the weather, as she had been taught, but quickly grew bored with her own remarks.

"I thought you had not even seen me," she confessed at last. "You were staring at our Queen with such intensity earlier."

"Aye, she looks beautiful." He seemed still rather starstruck and Lothíriel suppressed a grin.

"That she does. You should see her in the dress she wears under those robes," she could not resist adding.

King Éomer's expression turned to one of stunned disbelief.

"Did no one tell you? I am now Queen Arwen's maid of honour."

Éomer steered her right with perhaps a bit more force than strictly necessary. "You will lose that position fairly quickly, I am sure, if you go around telling stories about how your Queen looks in her undergarments."

She waved that off with a careless gesture. "Unlikely. Nothing else has worked."

They bowed to signal the end of the dance and before she had a chance to contemplate her next move, Éomer offered her his arm. Somewhat bewildered, Lothíriel took it. For a while they walked silently towards the terrace, and Lothíriel wondered if he was trying to catch her off guard, or scold her again. "How was your journey, my lord?" she asked finally.

"Uneventful. We made good time," he said.

She looked at him inquiringly but he did not volunteer more details.

"Are your brothers in good health?" he asked, rather suddenly.

"Yes, all of them, as far as I know. Amrothos and Erchirion are stationed in Osgiliath just now, but will be here on the morrow."

He nodded. Undoubtedly he already knew. "And your sister-in-law? I heard she had her child."

"Yes, not two weeks past. I have another nephew. Galweth and the babe are both very well."

"I am glad to hear it."

Two could play at this game. "How about your sister? Did you leave Lady Éowyn in good health?"

For a moment it seemed like he was about to say something sharp, but he evidently thought the better of it. "Excellent health, thank you."

"I am also glad to hear that," she said primly. "But with all our family in good health it does lead to a rather monotonous conversation."

"Yes," said Éomer and Lothíriel thought she would burst with frustration at his curt and puzzling behaviour.

"Excuse me, my lord, I think I see my friends," and she subtly slid her arm out of his hold, and before he could protest she dashed off into the crowd. Had she been present, her aunt would have railed at her for this breach of protocol, but Lothíriel feared her own tongue if she would stay in the man's company any longer. Aunt Ivriniel would just have to accept this lesser of two evils.

Lothíriel quickly found Hethlil and Raissel who stood gossiping together in a corner. They curtsied as she joined them and Raissel reached for her arm and continued chatting. Lothíriel felt somewhat gratified at the natural inclusion. Growing up away from the court of Minas Tirith might have been carefree and comfortable, but she had been bereft of the companionship of girls close to her in age and station. She sometimes envied Hethlil and Raissel their easy camaraderie born of mutual affection and long acquaintance. Perhaps her father had a point when he said she needed the friendship of other young ladies. Now Raissel turned to her and gushed: "Do you not think the King of Rohan very handsome, Princess Lothíriel? And to think he asked you for a dance!"

Lothíriel glanced across the floor to where Éomer stood with two of his riders. Despite the fact that they were tall and fair, the King towered over both of them. "Aye, very handsome. He keeps up such a delightful conversation, too," she said darkly.

"Lothíriel, I believe you do not like him," said Hethlil in her soft and clever voice.

To openly speak ill of the King of Rohan in the Hall of King Elessar was a bit too close to treasonous even for her comfort. "It is but a trifle. He is a great man, and a friend of my father's. That is probably why he felt obliged to dance with me."

"He did not ask anyone but you. And he is watching you now!" said Raissel, blushing prettily.

"Is he?" Lothíriel asked with some discomfit. "Perhaps I should hide lest he corner me again."

"I believe he is looking for refreshments. See, he is headed for the sweet course just brought out," said Hethlil.

"Oh yes, you are right. But Lothíriel is a Princess and he is a King and how romantic would it be?"

Lothíriel poked her in the side. "We should stop reading so much poetry," she said decidedly.

They all laughed at that and spoke of pleasanter things until the feast drew to an end. But when the girls excused themselves and left for their homes, Hethlil murmured: "Do not allow your personal feelings to rule you so in dealing with a man of his consequence, Lothíriel. He strikes me as proud, and the ways in the Mark are different from our own."

* * *

 _A/N Thank you, everyone, for reading and the follows, favourites and reviews. It's still a bit baffling to realise actual people are reading this story. Thank you, BlueRiverSteel, for your patience and excellent beta!  
_


	7. Despise Me If You Dare

The funeral escort for King Théoden had been on the road for four days. As Éomer expected, progress had been slow; but the company was easy and pleasant, and this was not a job to be performed in a hurry. That did not prevent him from sometimes, in the privacy of his own mind, wishing it could all be over and done with. The loss of his Uncle was still like an open wound, and dragging it out through the endless fields and forests of Anórien, was not without its unique torment.

Besides - and this was the part he did not like to admit even to himself - he still felt he could ill afford being so long away from Edoras. His Uncle had led Rohan out of darkness and deserved every honour in and under the sky, but Théoden was dead and there were many alive and struggling that needed him now. Fortunately, the weather had been nothing short of blessed lately: warm sunshine, soft rains and temperate winds from the west. His people had managed to plant barley and oats in early spring that would soon be ready to be harvested, and roots and berries still grew aplenty in the woodlands that the orcs of Saruman had been loath to enter. Gondor had also promised to send whatever aid they could, as most of their farmland had remained unraided and unspoilt. Éomer just hoped it would be enough. He also hoped that the winter would be mild; that the orcs still hidden in the Emyn Muil would be sufficiently cowed to not further raid the East Emnet and leave their herds alone; that the truce with the Dunlendings would hold as his countrymen rebuilt their farms and villages. Too many concerns and variables, and almost all of it out of his hands! Perhaps it was a good thing that he was surrounded by friends who could keep him from worrying overmuch.

Since Éomer had become King of the Riddermark, his relationship with his men had changed somehow. At first he had thought no crown could overcome all the years they had been riding together, and to an extent that was true, but it was still _different._ With his friends from Gondor, he need not be King all the time, and this was a welcome change. So Éomer often found himself in the company of Imrahil or his younger sons, who had both decided to accompany their father to Edoras. Erchirion and Amrothos kept his spirits light, his mind distracted, and were -somewhat to his surprise- not entirely without wisdom and good advice when pressed to talk on serious matters. Faramir also had taken to joining them when he was not needed elsewhere, or riding with Pippin and the Knights of Gondor. The cousins appeared to be on good terms with each other. Éomer learned that Erchirion for some time had served under Faramir as a Ranger of Ithilien, a rather unorthodox arrangement as Erchirion surely had had his own command in Dol Amroth already at the time, and the Rangers' methods of warfare were very different from those practiced in Belfalas. However, neither of his friends gave him a reason for it. In the evenings they took their suppers together and Éomer learned more about way of life in the south and on the sea. Inevitably there were those lessons he could have done without. For example, one memorable evening they brought him a dish to try which Erchirion called _breithabas._ It was, if the Prince was to be believed, a famous delicacy from their region _._ Éomer inspected the yellow goo smelled vaguely fishy and resembled something his Riders might bring up after a night of heavy drinking.

"Are you sure this is edible?" he asked with some suspicion. He did –quite rightly- _not_ consider pranks above the younger Princes of Dol Amroth.

"Try it, Éomer. I swear it tastes better than it looks," said Erchirion, handing him a spoon.

That did nothing to reassure him. "You really expect me to eat this?"

Erchirion shared an amused look with Amrothos, who shrugged and swiped the bowl from Éomer's hands. "Here, I will show you." He started to eat with relish.

"Hey! That is my supper," said Éomer, suddenly possessive of the grisly substance now it was out of his reach.

Amrothos showed no remorse, nor any inclination to return the dish to him. "I can tell it would be wasted on you."

"You're as bad as the _periain_ , brother," said Erchirion.

"I am not sure if this qualifies as an attempt to poison me or to starve me. I cannot believe I continue to seek out your company," said Éomer.

"My brother has a gift for making friends even of the most unwilling people," said Erchirion.

Éomer was also taking some pleasure in grilling the Steward of Gondor away from the irritable looks and reproach of his sister, and had found a willing ally in Amrothos, who felt his cousin needed to be kept on his toes now that he had been named Prince of Ithilien.

"You always had a tendency to take yourself too seriously, Faramir. I fear this new showy title may just make things worse."

"Interesting theory. From what I have observed that title tends to have just the opposite effect," had Faramir pointed out when Amrothos first brought it up.

"Ah, but those of us born into it can handle it with the whimsy it deserves," Amrothos had answered. This had earned him a smack in the back of the head from his brother.

In truth, Éomer liked the Steward of Gondor very much and found little fault with him. His affection and admiration for Éowyn was genuine and right, and they had kept up a fervent correspondence over the past months in spite of their respective duties. Faramir's letters had frequently left Éowyn flushed and radiant with some secret happiness. Faramir could indeed be grave like many of the Lords of Gondor, but that seemed to suit his sister, who herself had always been mature beyond her years (or at least considered herself to be so).

And then there was Lothíriel. When they first set out north, the Princess had been half-wild with enthusiasm, eager to race off whenever she could. She was a good rider, as naturally graceful in her seat as her brothers, but she was evidently not used to long days in the saddle and after a few days he noticed she was becoming tired and subdued, and her distraction cost her some control of her horse. Although this was not a wholly unwelcome change in her father's eyes, Éomer suggested a day of rest to Aragorn for the less experienced riders to relieve their soreness and fatigue. Not just for Lothíriel's sake, of course. She was not the only one unaccustomed to travelling in this style, and there were some among them who were still recovering their strength after the ordeals of the war.

So it was that on the fifth day they remained camped under the eaves of a copse of trees, near an offshoot of the Anduin that looped around the forest and then ran into the valley beyond. It was a beautiful, green country, all grasses and trees and strange stones that did not quite belong. Faramir, who knew this land best, convinced his friends to walk abroad and explore the woods, in the hope that they might find some fresh game. Whereas the plains had been buzzing with insects, the woods seemed quiet and they had little luck, but Faramir was persistent. Some half an hour later the King of Rohan watched with admiration as the former Ranger quickly brought down three squirrels he had not even noticed, each with a single arrow straight in the eyes.

"At least I do not have to worry about my sister going hungry," said Éomer with some amusement.

"Hm. Your confidence seems misplaced to me," said Amrothos. "These paltry things will never nourish your sister for long."

It appeared indeed pointless to bring the creatures back to camp and, as Erchirion rightly pointed out, it would probably expose them to more mockery than empty hands; so they sat themselves down on a stretch of mossy rocks, lit a fire and roasted them on the spot. Away from his usual guards and advisors, Éomer felt perfectly at leisure for the first time since Théodred was lost on the Fords of Isen. They shared a skin of tart wine from the vineyards of Lossarnach, and conversed easily on pleasant topics and traded jests, so that Éomer finally closed his eyes and sighed: "Let's never go back. Rohan can rule itself and Faramir can sustain us with his excellent squirrel-hunting skills."

Faramir laughed. "I'm not sure if Éowyn would forgive me if I were to run off with her brother instead."

"You are right. She most certainly would not," said Éomer, sobering instantly. "And then I would have to kill you for wounding her."

"Even if you yourself were the cause?"

"Of course," said Éomer. "Wounding my sister is one of the few indisputable capital offences in the Mark."

"Well, Cousin, that is a clear policy. I'm afraid you will have to resist Éomer's temptations," said Amrothos.

"I hope it never has to come to that. It seems a very awkward situation," said Faramir.

"I doubt it will," said Éomer with a grin. "If ever you hurt my sister, you will be long dead before I would have a chance to strike. Éowyn is much more efficient at these things than I."

"That is some risky betrothal you are rushing into, Faramir," said Amrothos. "I suppose those ranger skills will still come in handy after all. You will have to tread very carefully for the rest of your life."

Faramir seemed unconcerned. "I presume that is the fate of any man who marries a woman with older brothers."

"Oh?" said Amrothos, stretching out lazily. "I would evaluate every slight to my sister on a case-to-case basis. It seems to be a much more sensible approach. We might lose some good men otherwise."

"What do you mean?" Erchirion asked with some suspicion.

"I was speaking theoretically," said Amrothos, with an offhand gesture to his brother. "You see, in such a scenario there will always be multiple explanations, and a policy such as Éomer proposes might have unnecessarily messy consequences. Besides, Lothíriel may well have started it."

"That's not completely unlikely," Erchirion acknowledged. "Although that would not absolve him from blame in my eyes."

"I marvel at your nonchalance, Amrothos! I would not hesitate to avenge Lothíriel's honour if a man dared slight her," said Faramir.

"Hear that, Éomer?" said Amrothos, eyes glittering. "You and my cousin are in agreement. A most auspicious beginning of your imminent kinship."

Éomer glared at him but said nothing. Sometimes, in spite of everything, it was not entirely clear whose side Amrothos was on.

oOo

In the evening, craving some solitude, Éomer sat a little away from the rest of the company, warming his hands over the remnants of one of the cooking fires. It was getting dark and late, and some had already retired to their tents or fallen asleep under the clear night sky. Others were still about, drinking and laughing quietly, and the fair folk of Rivendell and Lothlorien wandered the wooded hills absorbed in their own slow and pensive world.

Then a young female voice started to sing, rising above the murmur of conversation.

 _One fine day he will find me  
A lone blue flag arising  
On the sea  
In the far horizon  
And then a ship appearing_

 _When the trim white vessel  
Glides into the harbour  
A silver horn will sound forth  
Signalling that he has come_

 _And the city will rush down to meet him  
But not I  
I stay upon the point of the cliff  
And wait there for a long time  
Never weary of the long waiting_

 _He will come from out of the crowds  
A shape in the distance climbing the hill  
He will call my name and I  
without answering hide myself  
a bit to tease him and a bit  
so as not to die at our first meeting _

_One fine day he will find me  
A lone blue flag arising  
On the sea  
In the far horizon  
And then his ship appearing_

 _This will all come to pass as I tell you  
Banish your idle fears  
I know he shall return_

Lothíriel's voice was a little thin, but pure and sweet, and the soaring, lilting melody was unlike anything he knew, too capricious to be Elvish but fragile and unearthly compared to the rolling songs of the Rohirrim. The Princess's face was alive as she sang, and he could see her meeting the gaze of some of his riders during the song with that wry twinkle that had fast become familiar. She was wearing breeches again, as she had been for most of the trip, but there was no mistaking her for a boy today. She had her legs crossed in front of her and was leaning back on her hands a little so that the fabric strained over her modest curves in the soft warm light of the fire. The effect was, he had to admit, rather captivating. Only when she finished and her audience applauded politely did she bite her lip and grin, looking well pleased with herself. Éothain asked her a question and he heard her laugh before she leaned over to whisper something in his captain's ear.

Éomer felt a hand on his shoulder and he started like a guilty child. The intruder, Erchirion, raised his hands in a defensive gesture as he sat down beside him. He took out one of those sweet-smelling fruits the southern knights were partial to and started peeling. Éomer moved to poke the fire to cover up his embarrassment at having been caught staring.

"It is a traditional lay from Dol Amroth," said Erchirion finally, breaking the silence. "Aearion, my fifth great grandfather, wrote it in honour of his stepmother."

"I have heard your House praised for its music before," said Éomer. "It is quite beautiful."

Erchirion grinned and accepted the compliment with a nod. Then he looked over to his sister and his expression grew darker. "It has always been Lothi's favourite. But the story behind it, I'm afraid, is sad."

Éomer raised his eyebrows inquiringly as he offered Erchirion a drink, which the Prince gracefully accepted.

Erchirion's voice was soft in the darkness. "Aeardir – he was the fifteenth Prince of Dol Amroth and my sixth great grandfather - took as his second wife Wilwarin of Anfalas, after his first wife died in childbirth. He was much older, and she was not of particularly high birth, but she was very much in love with him. Anfalas is a province of farmers and fishermen, and Wilwarin was unprepared to be a warrior's wife. When Aeardir had to sail to aid the Steward against the corsairs, she wept and pleaded with him to stay. He grew angry with her and they exchanged harsh words at their parting."

The young prince took another swig of ale as he stared into the fire.

"The battle was long and brutal, and when it seemed at last the King's navy would be victorious, a rare summer storm hit the seas and raged for two days. When the dust cleared, the Corsairs were driven back, but the fleet was scattered. Aeardir's ships were among those missing. For years Wilwarin held on to hope, and as she waited she grew wan and pale. She refused to acknowledge Aearion as the new Prince, and often chided him for his lack of faith in his father. When at last a ship returned, it came with tidings of Aeardir's passing. He had been slain by Corsairs in that last battle, and dead for years. Wilwarin just smiled when Aearion told her and kissed her stepson's brow. Then she left the castle and flung herself off a cliff into the sea."

Éomer's blood froze. Despair such as that was not entirely foreign to him, and he had seen it oft before, aye, even in his sister. He looked again over at Lothíriel, who had been provided with a mug of ale and seemed to be involved in happy banter with his riders. She looked so carefree. Had she wept when her father and brothers had sailed to war? Had she grieved for her fallen kin? Éomer found it difficult to imagine. She had sung the lay as a love song, all smiles and playfulness, and he felt a wave of resentment…. and envy. "Indeed that is a sad story," he said eventually.

"You must not know much about our people's history," said Amrothos, who had joined them, unbidden as always. He had swiped the stick off Éomer and was prodding the flames. The men of the south were somewhat unused to the brisk summer nights on this side of the White Mountains. "It is one tragedy after another for the race of Númenor. That one is a relatively happy tale. Indeed, in Dol Amroth we consider it frightfully romantic."

Éomer struggled to keep his emotions in check. "Romantic?" he said. "I saw my mother succumb to grief after my father was slain." Even after all these years his throat tightened as he spoke of her. "These stories have been all too common to be romantic."

Amrothos had the grace to look a bit uncomfortable. "Your pardon, Éomer. It is Wilwarin's faith that is romanticised, not her death."

"Let's hope such stories will be less common now," said Erchirion. The middle Prince of Dol Amroth's expression was pained, almost angry, and for the first time Éomer wondered what had happened to their mother, Imrahil's late wife. All he knew was that her name had been Mirdis and she had died some years before the start of the war. She must have been still young too, and Lothíriel no more than a child, perhaps of a similar age to what he had been when he lost his mother. He had never given the matter thought before. Theirs seemed such a happy and loving family that it was easy to forget there was a part missing.

oOo

It was just after midday on the twelfth day, the sun hot and high in the sky, that the procession halted for some rest and refreshment. With the summer now at its most relentless, they often broke their progress in the afternoon to seek shelter from the heat in the shade of the mountains. Especially the horses were suffering today, and some of his men had taken their mounts to the riverbanks to bathe and wash them with the cool water from the mountain-sprung stream. Éomer shared his dinner with Meriadoc, and they talked a while about the Halfling's home in the Shire and his former home in Aldburg that they would pass tomorrow. He had given it to Elfhelm as his seat when he made him Marshal of the Westmark after the Battle of the Morannon, and his old friend would join them there. Merry had lit his pipe and spoke with grand, avid gestures that made him laugh. After the inevitable second round of food, Éomer decided to check on Firefoot and see whether it would soon be possible to be on their way again.

With approval he regarded the horses; they seemed well and were now grazing comfortably. He looked here and there for his men and at last saw some of them a little removed from the horses in the shade of some willow trees. They were gathered around his squire Aldor's steed, Swiftheart, who used to be Éomer's spare to ride into battle in case something should befall Firefoot. And perched on his horse's high back was the Princess of Dol Amroth. She was standing without holding onto the reins and balancing on one leg with her arms stretched out as if she were a bird about to take flight. Her eyes were lowered, and her features serene and focused, and the world was eerily silent around her.

"What is going on here?" His voice brought the horse to attention and unbidden, the stallion walked a few steps forward. Lothíriel's stance faltered and she seemed to teeter forward, but then hastily recovered her balance. She crouched down upon the horse's back like a frog. He heard her mutter a few words in the Elvish tongue and the horse's ears flicked towards her again.

"Éomer King," she greeted him as she came to a kneeling position and grabbed the reins.

"What do you think you are doing, Princess?"

She smiled brightly at him, eyes innocent. "I am showing Aldor and Éothain how to stand on horseback, my lord."

"I can see that. Why?"

She shrugged and made a fluttering gesture with her fingers. "I saw some of the corsairs do it at the pageants when I was younger. Some of them were even able to remain standing at full gallop, but I am still working my way up to a canter. I was surprised to learn you have never practiced such things in Rohan."

He bristled at the condescension in her tone. "It is not something we do in the Mark because we value our horses and do not like to subject them to poor and callous treatment."

She pursed her lips and a frown appeared between those grey eyes. "You ride horses into war, my lord. And yet this strikes you as cruel?"

The unthinking comment almost made him take a step back. Was she trying to provoke him? Éomer bit back an angry retort and said, as coolly as he could: "Not cruel, but heedless. Horses are not show animals. You may well hurt his back if you do not distribute your weight properly."

"Hurt his back?" Lothíriel let out a snort. "Swiftheart is used to carrying a fully-grown warrior in chainmail. His back is pure muscle."

"Would you lecture me about my own horse?"

She started to speak but hesitated when she met his gaze and then apparently reweighed her words. "I was doing no harm."

"You cannot know that. You know nothing of this horse, or his history. He could have thrown you instantly." His horses were trained for war, to attack if they perceived a threat. If Lothíriel had been thrown, Swiftheart might well have trampled her too.

"So?"

 _So you could be dead,_ but he did not say it. "Your behaviour is reckless and inappropriate. Now get down."

"I have done this a hundred times before. I know what I am doing."

Insolent whelp. He would need to have words with her father. "Get off the horse, Lothíriel."

"It was just a bit of fun." Her eyes were icy as a winter's morning and she made no attempt to move. "You don't need to bluster so."

"I lead here," he thundered, his temper finally breaking through whatever was left of his restraint. "You are in my lands, and this is a funeral escort for my Uncle, who was King of Rohan and saved your city. You would do well to show respect, and refrain from showing off your festival tricks. Now get off the horse lest I drag you off there myself!"

She looked stricken, but at least it seemed he had got through to her. Wordless, she dismounted, handed him the reins, and after a final, contemptuous look ran off along the river. With great effort he restrained himself from rushing after her to give her a good shaking anyway. Impossible, spoiled brat! He tore his eyes away from the small dark figure and focused on his Riders. His men were silent and looked somewhat uncomfortable, but Éomer in his rage did not care what they thought of his behaviour.

"The Princess is not to go near the horses again, is that clear?"

Éothain nodded grimly.

Éomer turned to his squire. "Tell everyone we are making camp here," he ordered brusquely.

"But, my lord, it is only just past midday. I thought we planned to reach the Firienwood tonight."

"Are you questioning your King's command?" he barked. Aldor paled and hurried off.

Éomer strode over to Firefoot and swung himself in the saddle. He checked his sword and strapped a bow and quiver of arrows to his hip. "Éothain, gather the guard and ride with me. We need to scout the area."

"Aye, my lord."

He hoped there would be orcs.

oOo

There had been no orcs, and that was probably for the best, thought Éomer, now that he was in a calmer state of mind. They had ridden much further afield than usual, until the familiar feel of running Firefoot on the plains finally took the edge of his fury. He had ordered the return to the camp and now sat brooding in his tent. It had been a long time since he had thus allowed his temper to get the better of him outside of battle, but there was just something about the Princess that got under his skin. He wondered if he resented her for coming through the war so seemingly untouched and untroubled? She was not that much younger than his sister, who had at that age already known too much of duty and suffering, knowledge he would have spared her if he could. Yet that was no reason to begrudge Lothíriel her naïveté. As a friend to her family, he should rejoice that the war had not cost her her high spirits.

Of course there was also the simple fact that Lothíriel was completely vexing.

With some uneasiness he reflected on his harsh words to her. Earlier he had been of a mind to report the entire incident to her father, but he was not wholly unashamed of his part in it. Perhaps it would be better if it did not become too widely known that he had threatened to lay hands on the Princess of Dol Amroth. Also, Lothíriel might well have some accusations of her own to swing at his feet, if it came to it. With a sigh he ran his hand through his hair and then he moved to light another candle. Sleep would not come easy tonight, and he might as well study those trade agreements Imrahil had drawn up for him.

After he had stared at the numbers and figures for some time with little success, the flap opened and Éothain entered bearing a bowl of washing water and a skin of mulled wine that he accepted gratefully.

"Is all well with the company, Éothain?" he asked.

"Yes, sire. I have sent Riders on to Edoras so that the Lady Éowyn may know to expect us in three days."

"Thank you. You may retire."

Éothain hesitated.

"Are _you_ well, my lord?"

"Yes," he said curtly. He lay down the papers with a sigh and rolled his shoulders. "I have work to finish, but you should get some rest. We must make good time tomorrow to avoid further delays."

Éothain bowed and made to leave, but then popped his head round the corner again.

"So, I take it Princess Lothíriel will not be our new Queen then?"

"… What?"

"Some of the men thought that might be the reason she had joined the escort, my lord." Éothain had the gall to grin.

"Get out."

* * *

 ** _Unusually Lengthy Author's Notes, for those interested._**

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers, and to BlueRiverSteel for her support and for saving me from dreadful punctuation (I learn nothing). I hope you continue to enjoy.  
_

Breithabas _is inspired by the Portuguese dish Açorda (from the Arabic_ tarada _, meaning to break bread, which is also what breitha-bas hopefully means when translated back from Sindarin). It's a bread soup usually made with shrimp or codfish. It does taste a lot better than it looks._

 _Some of you may have recognised the lay Lothíriel sings as the famous aria "Un Bel Di" from_ Madame Butterfly. _I completely lack the skill to write Tolkienish poetry or lyrics (believe me, I have tried) so I decided on this instead. (I swear it rhymes in Westron)._

 _I got the translation from Deanna Durbin's performance in the movie_ First Love _(1939) and Middle-Earthified it a little. I chose it here partly as a nod to that adaptation and the criticism it received: the song is somewhat painfully out of place in_ First Love _as well. After all,_ Madame Butterfly _is a heartbreaking and tragic story (as operas tend to be) of a young Japanese girl who is used, and then dumped and abandoned by an American Naval Officer. The opera ends with her suicide._ First Love _, on the other hand, has a watered-down Cinderella-type plot with a mean cousin as the sole antagonist and an uncomplicated happy ending._

 _The song is also conveniently in the public domain. I knew the aria before I ever saw_ Madame Butterfly _and always associated it with a woman waiting for her loved one who went to sea. Wilwarin, of course, is butterfly in Quenya._

 _However, since Lothíriel's voice is nowhere near as strong or classically trained as Deanna Durbin's, I imagine the rendition she gave here to be closer to the 2007 folk/crossover version by Hayley Westenra. Hayley - who happens to be a Middle Earth native - sort of - if you trust the New Zealand board of tourism - is also a better singer than Lothíriel. I say this so you don't think_ _É_ _omer is being overly critical._

 _ **TL;DR I do not own the lyrics to this song, but no one does anymore, really.  
**_


	8. Something Like Regret

Lothíriel sat in the window seat of her temporary chambers and gazed out over the city of Edoras, the rows of wooden houses with thatched roofs, and the mountains and grasslands beyond. It was a summer unlike Lothíriel had ever known; with changeable winds, long days with the sun high and bright in sky, followed by short but brutally cold nights that left her wishing for a fireplace. At least she was otherwise sheltered from the elements. Most of their company was camped just outside the city walls, but her family was among those of sufficiently high rank to have been given quarters in the Golden Hall and surrounding guesthouses. Together with her father, Lothíriel was in an eastern wing of the Meduseld, the house of the King himself.

The King whom she had done her utmost best to avoid for these past two days.

The problem was that in his natural environment, Éomer seemed a lot more kingly than he had before in Gondor. Now that he was constantly surrounded by his own people with scores of servants at his beck and call, settling disputes and overseeing every meal, she could not help but take the power he wielded a bit more seriously. It made her feel small. It made her feel incredibly awkward about their encounter on the road.

For days she had been expecting repercussions. She had been quite sure that Éomer would at least talk to her father if not banish her from his lands outright. She also suffered from a rather embarrassing recurrent nightmare that saw her dragged before King Elessar and executed for her insubordination. Yet nothing like that had happened. Instead, Éomer had studiously avoided her for the rest of the trip, and been distant but polite the few times they had been forced into each other's company. Then at Edoras she had promptly been assigned what must have been one of its loveliest rooms; cozy and bright with pretty wooden panelling, a soft bed covered in colourful blankets that invited long lazy lie-ins and windows facing east to welcome the early sunrise. It was all very puzzling.

At first she thought that perhaps this was King Éomer's way of showing contrition, since he had been so clearly in the wrong. Yet there was no remorse in his eyes when he looked at her, quite the contrary, and his offhand and distant manner suggested he was still displeased. Besides, Lothíriel knew well that in these kinds of disputes it did not matter who was right; it mattered who was king. Also, ignoring the King's command and refusing to surrender a horse when ordered would probably qualify as a greater offence than poor arguments or any threat to use force, at least in the eyes of her father who -although he had never lain hands on his daughter- was not above some occasional intimidation himself.

In the end Lothíriel was forced to admit that Éomer could have made life really difficult for her, and had not done so, and she knew not what to make of it but she suspected this put her somewhat in his debt. Formally speaking, of course.

There was a knock on the door and a serving girl entered with a bowl of water and some soap so she could refresh herself. Baths were a rare luxury at Edoras. This had seemed a rather horrifying discovery upon their arrival after fifteen days on the road, when her muscles had been aching and longing to be soaked in hot water. By now she had already accepted it and it did save rather a lot of time. Lothíriel thanked the girl and she blushed and ran off. Most of the younger servants of the Hall spoke no more than a few words of the Common Tongue, and it was hard to get a word out of them. The people of Gondor might not have seen any elves for a long time; but to the Eorlingas, the Firstborn were an unknown entity entirely, nothing more than whispers of sorcerers and witches, and most were rather skittish around them. Although Lothíriel was quite clearly not elvish, she was still foreign with her dark hair and colouring, and she was often in the company of Arwen, so she supposed she was tainted by association.

"Are you awake, Lothíriel?" came her father's voice from behind the door.

"Yes, Ada," she answered, hopping down from the bench and crossing the room to let him in.

"Ah, good." Imrahil entered and surveyed the room, frowning at yesterday's crumpled gown lying on the floor and her belongings strewn carelessly over the bed. Lothíriel had not been able to bring Maeneth to Edoras, because the city would be too overburdened with guests already to be able to house personal maids for the ladies, and the servants here were kept so busy that they had no time to clean up after her. She did not mind, but had observed with interest how quickly the state of one's room could descend into chaos when no one is there to pick up the mess. "I am to meet with Éomer and his seneschal to go over some details about the feast and provisions now, and after King Elessar has summoned a full council, so I'm afraid I will be kept quite busy for the foreseeable future."

"All right," said Lothíriel, already going over possibilities in her mind to abuse this scrap of freedom.

"The Lady Éowyn invites you to explore the markets with her later in the afternoon," continued her father. "Your cousin Faramir will also be there. I take it you accept?"

Not exactly what she had in mind. Lothíriel folded her arms across her chest. "You mean, am I available to chaperone Éowyn and Faramir's assignation? In which case, no, absolutely not."

"Amrothos will go as well."

"Ah. I am sure that will be a very merry party." She was feeling a little sorry for Éowyn and Faramir already.

Her father took her by the shoulders, turned her around and deftly began braiding her hair in two plaits down her shoulders. With no maid and no Aunt Ivriniel to tame it, her curls seemingly had no reservations about sticking out in every direction. "It is a mere formality, but it must be observed."

"I don't know why anyone still bothers. Who knows how many kisses Faramir stole before the host returned to the city last Spring? If indeed it was only kisses…"

"Will you be able to keep out of trouble until then?" asked her father, pulling at her hair rather sharply.

"Of course, father," said Lothíriel demurely.

He looked wary. "Perhaps Queen Arwen has need of you. Why not go and see her?"

So, after her father had approved of her appearance, Lothíriel went down to the Queen's chambers and found Arwen in a small boudoir at needlework. Most of the Eldar were camped along the Snowbourn and kept a fair distance from Edoras. According to the Queen, they much preferred it outside of the enclosure of the city of the Horselords, which was packed with people, haphazard and crowded buildings and, unsurprisingly, the lingering smell of dogs and horses everywhere. Arwen had been spending much of her time with her kin lately, but shared rooms with King Elessar in the same wing as Imrahil and Lothíriel. Not bothering to announce her presence (a bad habit the Queen had chided her for only yesterday), Lothíriel stood in the doorway and observed Arwen at work, admiring the speed and dexterity of her fine movements.

"What are you making, my lady queen?"

"Ah, Lothíriel," the Queen's voice sounded resigned. "It is supposed to be a secret." But she smiled and beckoned her to enter.

"A secret dress? This sounds like important state business to me."

"Do not underestimate the importance of the right cloth at the right time," said Arwen serenely.

She moved aside to allow Lothíriel a closer look. The silk was smooth to the touch, a beautiful, pale lilac, cut in the Queen's usual style with simple, soft lines, short sleeves with a slight flare and the fabric gathered somewhat above the waist.

"It is very pretty, my lady."

Arwen smiled. "I am glad it has your approval, Lothíriel. It is for you."

That was unexpected and Lothíriel felt rather taken aback. "My lady, you did not need to do that."

"I am happy to. I have noticed your discomfort every time you are made to dress up, but I think you will like this gown."

A jolt of pleasure went through her as she imagined herself in the dress, looking regal and composed, and inciting admiration like the Queen. Then she blushed at her own thoughts. "You are far too good," she said to Arwen.

The Queen gently tapped her cheek. "Do not look so anxious, Lothíriel. I enjoy dress-making. I did not put myself through tortuous pains on your behalf."

"In that case I thank you, although I do not know when I will have the occasion, or the heart to wear something so beautiful."

"It is not quite ready yet. There is still a little time for you to grow into it."

Lothíriel could not resist stroking the fabric again, feeling it glide between her fingers like cool water. "What will you do today, my lady, aside from labouring over gowns for your maids?"

The Queen, as she took the unfinished gown from Lothíriel and folded it gently, grew quieter. "I will be with my family. The time of our parting is now very near."

"Ah," said Lothíriel, wishing she had words of comfort to offer. "So I cannot persuade you to join Éowyn and Faramir for a turn around Edoras later, and observe their attempts at courtship with Amrothos pestering them at every turn?"

Arwen laughed at that. "I think not, although I admit that is a tempting offer."

"So you have no need of me, my lady?"

"No, Lothíriel, not today. Go enjoy yourself."

Lothíriel curtsied and closed the door behind her, then leaned against it with a sigh. _Enjoy herself_. In normal circumstances, Lothíriel would have been able to think of a thousand things to do in a new and foreign city, especially one so bustling with activity as Edoras, but she had been feeling oddly subdued. And then there was another nagging problem: above all, she wished to see the stables, because this was the heart of Rohan and she was sure they would be quite splendid, but she dreaded going anywhere near them or Éomer's Riders after earlier events. Cowardice, she scolded herself. There was no real reason why she should not do exactly as she wished. Besides, she really ought to check on Suldis.

The Royal Stables lay just to the southeast of the Meduseld, separated from the Hall by a stretch of grass and a small copse of trees to prevent the spreading of fire. The building was beautiful, with wooden arches, delicately engraved, gilded pilaster-strips and high triangular windows. In some ways, it was grander than the Meduseld itself, but this was Rohan after all. To the back, the stables opened in the cavalry courtyard, which was surrounded by tiered seating on each side. She had already discovered she could see it from her window if she leaned out just a little. There, the Riders of the Mark trained and exercised their horses when they had not the means or inclination to go further afield. Guards were stationed at the entrance to the stables, although they seemed quite at ease and folk wandered in and out freely. Lothíriel assumed they were more for decorative purposes than anything else, which is why she was surprised when one of them -rather reluctantly- halted her as she approached.

"I am sorry, Princess. I am under orders not to let you in."

Lothíriel's stomach sank as she looked up at the Rider whom she vaguely recognised from the journey. "You cannot be serious!" she said, unable to keep her dismay out of her voice. "I only wish to visit my horse."

"Is she stabled here?"

Lothíriel nodded. "Her name is Suldis. She is a small chestnut, but very fast."

The guard smiled now. "Ah, yes, I know her. She's a pretty little filly, isn't she?

"Yes. She is also _mine._ "

"I am sorry, Princess. Be assured she is well looked after."

Lothíriel bit back her rising temper. "Let me see her and I shall judge."

"I am afraid I cannot. Éomer King was very explicit that you were not to enter the stables without him."

Impatient, Lothíriel tapped her foot. "Then bring her out to me!"

"I am sorry, Princess," said the Guard yet again. "I suggest you take it up with the King."

Fuming now, Lothíriel turned away. Of all the insulting and presumptuous things to do! She looked about, but there seemed to be no other entry into the courtyard. However, it would not be too hard to climb over that wall, if she could swing herself onto that low-hanging branch on the nearby tree first… and she was Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, so of course she could do it. She had already snuck across the grass and was reaching for the branch when she changed her mind. She had no wish to add breaking and entering to her growing list of offences against Rohan. Not yet, anyway. Somber now, she retired to her room and, out of sheer perversity more than anything else, began a long letter to her aunt.

oOo

The winds picked up in the afternoon and clouds came to darken the sun, but the rain would not start until tonight, or so the serving girl who brought out her dinner assured her. The outing with Faramir and Éowyn therefore need not be postponed. Lothíriel was not sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, she was in danger of actually being bored. On the other hand, spending time with Éowyn was a rather daunting prospect, especially when she knew that as a chaperone her absence would be desired by default. If Lothíriel felt wary around Éomer, it was nothing compared to how she felt around Éowyn. It did not help that Éowyn was someone whose good opinion seemed worth having, with her slaying the Witch-King and all, but so far the signs were not too hopeful. Where Faramir was surprisingly easygoing, indulgent even, Éowyn of Rohan was stern, forbidding and so beautiful it could break your heart. Lothíriel and Éowyn differed by only six years in age, but it might as well have been a century, so childish felt Lothíriel next to the Lady of the Shield-arm. She was not completely unused to feeling green and unsophisticated after her months with Arwen, but it was much more grating when the other person was not truly that much older, and allegedly –however distantly- related to you.

"Just be yourself," Arwen had advised when she had raised her concerns again. This, thought Lothíriel privately, was possibly the worst idea imaginable, but then again, what else had she to work with?

It was good that her brother would be there. Amrothos and Lothíriel had been readily available to chaperone Galweth and Elphir as they got to know one another, and so they had some experience with the finer points of this specific form of torment society forced on young couples. So, when they sauntered onto the terrace and found Éowyn and Faramir in a corner with their hands clasped together, they shared a conspiratorial grin.

"Is holding hands acceptable, Lothíriel?" asked Amrothos, startling the lovers out of their reverie.

"I am not sure, Amrothos. What would Aunt Ivriniel have to say about that?"

"Surely not until the betrothal has been announced officially."

"Exactly right. Faramir, we must insist you release the lady at once, for propriety's sake."

"You are fortunate you have us to guide you, Cousin," added Amrothos.

Faramir let go of Éowyn with an apologetic smile to the lady. Then he turned to his cousins. "Let us hope one day I can be in the position to return the favour." His tone was unusually cross and Lothíriel laughed.

They walked down into the city and quickly lost themselves among the crowds. Éowyn explained that many of her countrymen from outlying provinces and villages had come to bid their final farewell to the King, and that this meant also a convenient opportunity to trade wares and create new contracts, which Lothíriel thought a bit singular but undoubtedly practical. As a result, the market was larger than ever, sprawling from the main square into the streets and even out the main gate. The air was full of scents: roasting meat, fresh berries and mulled wines mingled with the sharper smells of cheese, leather and sheep. Many of the offers were quite enticing, and the farmers and traders were happy for the White Lady of Rohan and her party to sample their wares. Especially the beekeepers were rather persistent in offering up his various brews of mead. They were good, sweet and heavy at the same time, and after the third helping Lothíriel was served, she felt rather dizzy. With a smile, Amrothos took her mug away from her.

"That will do very well, I think," he said. Lothíriel huffed but did not argue the point.

Lothíriel's attention was then drawn by a stall on which were displayed some woollen blankets, with soft muted colours and various patterns. One had a stream cascading down the mountains and another horses running through a sea of grass. It was a craft she did not know from Dol Amroth, and it was beautiful. She was particularly taken by one with a hem of midnight blue depicting a mare with her foal against a backdrop of rolling green hills.

The merchant seemed almost uncomfortable with her interest. "It is just a horse blanket, my lady."

"Oh no, it is the softest and most beautiful thing I have ever seen." She turned to her brother. "May I have it?"

Amrothos frowned. "I thought father had given you an allowance of your own."

"Yes, he did. But it was such a paltry sum that I spent it all yesterday."

"Well, there you go," said her brother.

"Oh, but I must have this blanket," said Lothíriel fervently. She tried a different tactic. "After all, we have to stimulate Rohan's economy. I am certain father would approve. Indeed, he would consider it our duty."

"Then I suggest you lead with that when you reopen negotiations," said Amrothos, still unwilling.

"Amrothos, he is busy with other important things! Show some initiative."

"See what I have to put up with?" said Amrothos to Faramir, but he caved and bought it for her anyway.

After they had walked for a while, they passed a tavern and Éowyn proposed they should go in for some ale and to have their tea. The suggestion was well received, and they sat down and ordered drinks for the table, as well as a plate of delicious fruits and cheese. The excursion proved really not as bad as she had feared, reflected Lothíriel, and Éowyn was not so very unlike other ladies she knew.

"Where is Erchirion? Why is he not part of our merry outing?" asked Lothíriel of Amrothos as her cousin divided a jug of ale between them.

"Father is still deliberating with the King, and Erchirion is keeping records."

"Oh, I am sorry," said Lothíriel with a shudder.

"I will tell him it took you about two hours to remember his existence."

"You will do no such thing," said Lothíriel, elbowing her brother in the side.

Éowyn was frowning now and turned to Faramir. "Must they talk on such matters now, while we are preparing my Uncle's burial?" she asked in a soft voice, just loud enough for Lothíriel to hear.

"Your brother likes it no more than you do, Éowyn," said Faramir. "He confided the same to me this morning."

Éowyn looked sceptical. "My brother is a hypocrite. He cannot wait to ride out again."

Faramir smiled but did not seek to deny it. "The timing could have been better. Unfortunately, it will be a year at least before we will manage to gather a similar council, and it is good to plant the first seeds of the campaign now, so that all may have time to prepare."

That at last sparked Lothíriel's interest. "Campaign? As in, military campaign? I thought we won the war."

"Well, I am glad you noticed that part," muttered Amrothos under his breath and Lothíriel absentmindedly shoved him in the side.

"Yes, we won and the hosts of Mordor were scattered," said Faramir, drawing a rudimentary map on the table with his fingers. Her cousin could be rather pedantic at times. "Many of our enemies surrendered, but not all. The Easterlings and Orcs are still roaming the Brown Lands, here, and some of the Harad tribes have been testing our borders in southern Ithilien. We can wait; actually, we must wait, because we sustained heavy losses and we need time to recover, but we should not give them a chance to regroup now that the shadow has departed and they are leaderless and in chaos."

Lothíriel bit her lip, dazed by the news and annoyed that she should be surprised. Of course the Earth had not conveniently swallowed up the armies of the Enemy as soon as they were defeated.

"But then are we going to war again? Amrothos, are you going?" she demanded.

"It is nothing to concern you, Lothíriel," said her brother soothingly. "Nothing has been decided."

"I beg your pardon," said Éowyn. "Of course it concerns her. Indeed, I am surprised you were not aware of this, Princess.

Amrothos grinned. "I do not think Lothíriel realised we were at war with Mordor even when the Shadow fell over our lands."

"Hey, that's not fair. Of course I knew we were at war," said Lothíriel, in no mood for her brother's jests.

"Come on, Loth. I was only teasing you."

"You are always teasing me." Lothíriel puffed out her cheeks. All her brothers were guilty of treating her like a child at times. "Of course, you could have all made the entire thing up. I'm still not ruling it out."

"You believe the war to be made up? How is that possible?" Éowyn demanded of no one in particular.

"Not seriously," said Lothíriel, chastened by Éowyn's hot response.

Her brother gave her an admonishing look. "We were lucky in Dol Amroth," he said to Éowyn. "Of course, many of our knights marched to war and gave their lives on the Anduin, the Pelennor Fields and before the Black Gate. But war never came to our doorstep like it did here in Rohan."

"I thought your coasts were regularly raided by the Corsairs."

"Indeed, that is true," said Faramir now, "but never Dol Amroth, which is sheltered by wild currents all year round. The Enemy cannot reach there, nor the Elven harbour at Edhellond beyond. Only the Firstborn and the House of Galador can navigate the waters there, it is said, but I do not think it has been attempted for many a generation. It is why Dol Amroth also has such a strong tradition of cavalry forces, as you do here."

"I almost convinced Erchirion to attempt to cross the waters, but he had some sense after all. But my cousin is right, my lady. No enemy of the free people of Middle-Earth has set foot in Dol Amroth for a thousand years, longer than the memory of your people," said Amrothos.

"And you spent all your life there, Princess?

Lothíriel nodded. "Pretty much. I am probably the most sheltered person you will ever meet."

"That is astonishing," said Éowyn. She bit her lip, the first less than dignified thing Lothíriel had seen her do, and looked thoughtful. "Were you never frustrated to be kept so secluded?"

Lothíriel was honestly not sure what Éowyn meant by that, but she knew enough of the White Lady's history to guess where this particular conversation was going. "I - no, I do not think so. I heard all the stories from my brothers, and was quite happy for them to remain stories."

"Stories!" Éowyn seemed truly perplexed now.

"Éowyn, I am not like you," said Lothíriel, her voice sounding more plaintive than she had intended. "I would not have the first idea how to fight a battle."

"I cannot believe that! You have three brothers who command armies. Surely you have picked up a sword yourself, if only to try."

"Um, no," said Lothíriel with some shame. "I was always very glad to not be subjected to the drilling my father forced on them. Volunteering for it did not even enter my mind."

"You have never trained with a sword? Or a bow, at least? I understand that some skill in archery is not uncommon among the ladies of Gondor."

I have never trained with a sword or a bow," echoed Lothíriel dully. "But you are are right, it is not uncommon."

"But what then can you do to defend yourself?"

She considered that for a moment. "I suppose I could run away very fast. I am a good runner."

"Not an altogether unworkable strategy, to be sure," said Amrothos with a grin.

"You are very casual about your sister's helplessness," observed Éowyn coolly. Amrothos paled just a little. The White Lady of Rohan apparently had a discomfiting effect even on her brother.

"I am not helpless," said Lothíriel, leaning her elbows on the table.

"Forgive me, Princess, but it sounds as if you are. You should have been taught at least some rudimentary skills! Especially since you will likely not all your life be in Dol Amroth."

Lothíriel did not know what to say to this and opted for silence.

"This must be brought to Prince Imrahil's attention," said Éowyn with some determination.

Lothíriel buried her head in her arms in despair and Amrothos laughed out loud.

Faramir picked up the jug and topped up Éowyn's mug. "I have to admire, dear heart, how you managed to turn this pleasurable outing into a war council as well."

Éowyn picked up her mug and suddenly a playful glint appeared in her eyes. "Yes, I'm not sure how that happened. As you see, Faramir, us wild shieldmaidens of the North will always find a way."

They passed the rest of the afternoon talking on less contentious topics, such as the ways of the Eorlingas and the differences between their countries, but as Lothíriel bade the others goodbye, she felt Éowyn's gaze linger on her with an unreadable expression in those pale blue eyes, and Lothíriel felt judged and condemned.

* * *

 _A/N A heartfelt thanks to all reviewers; all your comments are really appreciated._ _I will be flying home to my family soon, and afterwards am moving halfway across the world, so updates may be a little more erratic over the next week or two. However, it is still my intention to finish posting this arc around New Year's Day._


	9. The Best Of Brothers

The day of the burial dawned bright and clear, with the sun shining on the river and valley, and a brisk wind blowing in from the west. Riders from the Eastmark and Westmark had been arriving through the night, and a great breakfast was laid in the hall; the tables laden with fresh bread baked with apple and honey, porridge and pickled fish. Éomer had left Éowyn to oversee it and welcome their guests. He had sat up all night with his Uncle and would not eat until after the ceremony, as was tradition.

Today he would become King of the Mark in earnest, and the Second Line of Kings would be ended.

At last that thought was accompanied by some acceptance. In the dark vigil of the night had been comfort as well. Comfort, and the relief that it would be over, that Théoden would soon be feasting in the Halls of the Dead and he could begin his reign in the King's Hall in Middle Earth. ("I'm glad to hear it," said Éowyn. "It would have been a little late to back out now.")

Théoden King was buried with his sword, his spear and many shields embossed with the white horse and the golden sun of Rohan. Éowyn gave him also a ring that had belonged to their mother, Théodwyn, Théoden's sister, and Morwen Steelsheen before that, inlaid with precious stones from the far off deserts to the south. Many of the women were weeping openly for King Théoden, and many of the men too, but he saw no tears on the face of his sister, and her voice was strong and sure when she joined them in song. He did not blame her. She had cried so much over him already. Both siblings had loved Théoden as a father, but Éowyn had been particularly close to him, had grown up with him, had after all only been seven when they lost their parents and came to live at Meduseld. Their assembled high guests were silent, and looked greatly moved. He saw Erchirion's eyes were wet, as always the most sentimental of his siblings, but even Amrothos looked pensive. There were no tears in Princess Lothíriel's eyes, and her face was emotionless as she stood beside her brothers, a black veil covering her hair.

When the burial was over at last, and the mourners left the field, Éomer lingered and Éowyn came to stand beside him.

"Are you well, Éomer?" she asked, as she took his hand in hers.

"That depends," said Éomer with a sigh. "Is it wrong to feel more relief than sadness?"

"Not at all," said his sister. "Other feelings will come, or not. It is all the same. He knew you loved him."

He studied her face, pale and serene in the sunlight. "Where did you get such wisdom?"

"In happiness," said Éowyn. It was a silly answer, perhaps, but it could not be mocked, as she stood there, smiling at him, all sincerity and solemnity.

Éomer came to a decision. "Let's announce your betrothal tonight." And to tease her out of her serious mood he added: "It is right and fitting, and with such an indecent amount of witnesses, Faramir will certainly not be able to back out of taking you off my hands."

Éowyn wrapped her arm around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. "Very funny, brother dear. You will miss me madly, I am sure."

"Dementedly," confirmed Éomer, stroking her hair and kissing it. "But what can I do? If Gondor must have you, then they shall."

So they stood for a while, gazing at the fresh mound under which now rested their Uncle. "Do you blame me, Éomer?" asked Éowyn suddenly.

"For wishing to marry Faramir? Éowyn, don't be absurd. You love him, and he makes you happy. Of course you must marry."

"No," she said after a moment. "Not for Faramir."

Her words hung heavy in the air and the wind seemed to change. He knew instantly what she meant. Did he blame her for riding out with them? Did he blame her for dying on him, or at least as good as? They had not spoken of it before, not ever. He had never wanted to mention it, because he did not know what to tell her. How could he even begin to sort through his conflicted emotions? He saw her now again in his mind's eyes, in her disguise, her hair spilling free from under the helmet, eyes unseeing and so pale, lying on the battlefield, the blood and the mess. A nightmare he would never be able to put behind him, not completely. And it had been badly done, on her part. She had abandoned her duty, and with all good men riding east or off in the Westmark, Edoras had been vulnerable, left behind in chaos, open to the influences of those who might have supported Wormtongue's rule, even with the spell on the King broken and Saruman defeated. It had taken months to sort out the mess left behind, although Gamling had done the best he could when he discovered Éowyn was nowhere to be found. And yet Éowyn had saved the world. Had she not ridden with them, that day on the Pelennor would have ended in much greater sorrow. How does one rebuke the hero who slew the Lord of the Nazgûl, saving her king and country, for negligence of duty? Especially since it was a duty he had never wished entrusted to her, a duty forced on her unthinkingly by a brother and uncle blind to the depths of her despair. He was not guiltless. He was so happy she had lived. He was proud of her. And yes, he was angry also, but mostly with himself.

"Éowyn… we do not have to speak of this."

"I know. Yet I have wished to speak of it."

"What do you want me to say?" he said, his voice constricted.

"I don't know."

"It seems like it should not matter now."

"Are you angry with me?"

He tried to find the words. "I was angry with you, for a time." She was silent as she waited for him to continue. "And then when I realised you felt that I had failed you…"

"Éomer…," she shook her head.

"When I realised that I had failed you, I thought you had endangered yourself to punish me," he finished bitterly.

To her surprise she smiled, even though it was a sad smile, a half smile blurred by the tears in her eyes. "Not everything is about you, Éomer."

"I suppose not," he murmured, feeling a trifle piqued.

"Sometimes I no longer understand myself why I did it," said Éowyn now. "I remember what I felt; how I saw no way out, but when I look back, I feel like a stranger to myself. I have wondered since if it was fate more than anything else that set me on that path. A piece on a chessboard, manipulated and played so she may be in the right place at the right time. Perhaps because that allows me to conveniently absolve myself from blame."

That would not do at all. He turned her around and looked her in the eyes. "Do not diminish your deeds, Éowyn. You won the greatest victory of all that day; your strength and courage, and no other." His hands balled into fists. "My actions nearly cost us everything."

"Because of me."

"No."

"Because you love me." She held his gaze and for the first time that day he felt like breaking down.

"I thought I had lost what is most dear to me in the world."

"I am sorry."

"I am sorry."

"I am sorry," she said again. "But I do not regret it."

He swallowed his pride. "Nor should you." But he always would.

oOo

The solemn day was followed by a grand feast in the Meduseld. Éomer had never seen the Golden Hall so crowded, with guests from all over the Riddermark, Gondor, and more distant lands still. They had set up as many benches and tables as could be found, but still some were forced to sit on the floor, cups in hands and plates in laps, because of the lack of room. It mattered not, for the atmosphere was joyful and there was plenty of food for everyone, mostly also thanks to the generosity of the Prince of Dol Amroth who had brought many wagons of grain, fine wines and dried fruits and herbs from the rich and fertile lands of Belfalas. It was a gift Éomer knew not how to repay, even though Imrahil had been quite adamant that it was nowhere near enough considering what Rohan had done for Gondor, and also that it would be absolutely ridiculous to expect his country to provide for the entire company for the full duration of their stay.

During the meal, his people told and sang stories of Théoden, whom they now called Ednew, the renewed, for throwing off the curse of Saruman and leading them into a new dawn. The deeds of their fallen king seemed to become grander and more colourful by the minute, and Éomer laughed when one of the Riders boasted that no fewer than ten orcs were already impaled on his Uncle's spear when he hurled it at the captain of the Haradrim. His Uncle deserved it, and thus it became true. When the time came to announce the betrothal of Éowyn and Faramir, Éomer was comfortably buzzed and in high spirits, as was Aragorn beside him. The announcement was met by much rejoicing, but no surprise whatsoever because Faramir and Éowyn had not been exactly subtle in their affection to each other that evening, nor in the days before.

After the official part of the feast was concluded the Hall emptied slowly, but enough for the gathered guests to start moving around. Faramir and Éowyn remained seated close together, knees touching under the table, but Éomer could not find it in his heart to begrudge them their intimacy now, however improper it might strike the assorted lords of Gondor and Rohan. Some of those lords were also past bothering with propriety. He noticed Amrothos leaning against a pillar with one of his prettier kitchen maids, Gwendolen, on his arm. The girl was whispering in his ear, giggling and twirling her blonde hair around her fingers. It would, of course, not do to take these things too far. Casually, Éomer made his way over to the pair, took the young Prince aside and said in a low but he hoped still threatening voice: "Behave yourself, Amrothos, or I shall hold you personally –and yes, financially- responsible for every dark-haired bastard born in Edoras for the next year."

The Prince looked a little guilty. "Your warning is well taken."

When almost all the guests had departed for their lodgings, Éomer was still wide awake and feeling comparatively merry, so he invited Faramir, Éowyn, Arwen and Aragorn to his study for one last celebratory drink.

"Éomer, you should be in bed. You have been up for days."

"Do not mother me, Éowyn. I am perfectly well, and I am King, and I say we have another glass of wine."

"Hear hear," said Aragorn. "I am certain your rule will prove very popular if you go on like this. At least with me."

Éomer clapped the King of Gondor on the shoulder and grinned.

Éowyn was less impressed. "Honestly, I do not know what will become of you when I go to Ithilien, and you have no one to look after you."

"Is that not obvious?" said Faramir. "It is clear your brother needs a wife." That caused Éomer to fall silent and glare at his future brother-in-law. Apparently, the days of Faramir trying to ingratiate himself with him were behind them, now he could no longer in good grace withdraw his permission for his sister's hand.

"I believe Faramir is right, Éomer," said his sister now with a devilish grin. "We must find you a new Lady of the Hall before I leave, or I will despair of what I shall find upon my return to Meduseld."

"Oh no," said Éomer. "We will not be discussing this topic tonight. And I forbid any matchmaking." His sister had in the past few months on occasion subtly shoved some girls his way, all nobly born, all sound choices, all failing to captivate more than a passing interest.

"It is not quite so bad, my friend," said Aragorn.

"You would hardly say otherwise, here and now," said Éomer, casting a dark look at his brother-in-arms who had his arm around his Queen and looked well content. "And I know you are a fan of the institution, or at least you had better be," this directed at Faramir.

"Of course, Gondor now owes you a Lady." The King mused as he lit his pipe. Éowyn went to open the window; she had no love for Aragorn's tobacco. "Hmm… how about Lothíriel?"

Éomer would have fallen out of his chair had Éowyn not moved to stand next to him.

"Interesting suggestion, my liege. I know Imrahil would not be opposed to the match," said Faramir with a straight face.

"Oh, Faramir, do be serious. Lothíriel is still so young, and more than a little childish," said Éowyn.

"I have not found her so," said Arwen. "Perhaps she is somewhat heedless, at times."

"Besides, have we not recently had cause to learn that heedless and foolhardy schemes can lead to unexpected successes?" said Aragorn.

" _That_ is what you took away from this war?" said Éomer with a groan. "I sincerely hope we can expect better strategy in the future, or we are all doomed."

Aragorn shrugged and grinned apologetically.

"Anyway, I thought the goal of my marriage would be to relieve my burdens, not add to them," said Éomer.

"On the contrary," said Aragorn. "I hope my marriage will add a great many burdens to my life."

Arwen looked curiously unperturbed by that statement.

"No, my brother raises a fair point," conceded Faramir. "My cousin can be a handful."

"Also, Lothíriel told me yesterday she had never held a sword," weighed in Éowyn.

"You have interesting requirements for my Queen," said Éomer.

"What are your requirements, then?" challenged Éowyn.

"Well…" Éomer was about to make a flippant remark when he found that he had actually given that some thought in spite of himself. "She must be accomplished, fair-spoken and strong. She needs to be able to be my voice in my absence, so a thorough understanding of our law, and the natural authority to be able to wield it, are necessary also. She has to ride well, that goes without saying, and be educated to manage a noble household." And I would love her, he added silently in his head, but that seemed to matter very little in the grand scheme of things.

"That is an impressive list, Éomer," observed Arwen.

"You call it an impressive list; I call it a convenient series of excuses," said Éowyn, finally giving in and pouring herself a glass of wine.

Éomer was serious now. "You mistake me, I have nothing against marriage. Indeed, I rejoice in your happiness, and I envy you not a little, too. I just have no time to woo, and no wish to be forced into any arrangement so soon. I don't plan to marry in these next few years."

"Your advisors will not be happy to hear that," said Aragorn. "I feel it is foremost on their mind, especially after our discussions yesterday."

"They must wait. But I think I can guarantee that when the time comes, it will not be Lothíriel."

"Worry not, brother. You are King indeed, and the least courtesy we can allow you is to choose your own wife."

"As long as you do choose, in the end," said Éowyn pointedly.

* * *

 _A/N_ _Thank you again for the follows and reviews, especially also the guest reviewers whom I cannot reply to personally._

 _I thought the only way in which Aragorn's line at Théoden's funeral feast ('No niggard are you,_ _É_ _omer,' said Aragorn, 'to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!') was in any way excusable was to have him quite drunk at the time. I promise to have him feature in a more dignified manner later on. This chapter and the next are rather short, but it made more sense to split them in two rather than post one long and awkward chapter, so expect an update soon._


	10. Inconsistency Of All Human Characters

Meduseld at night was dark and more than a little eerie, and Lothíriel was still finding her way around the place. Throughout the years, the different Kings of the Mark had added to the building as they saw fit, leading to a confusing conglomeration of wings, cellars and appendages. It felt much like a labyrinth at times, with every path inevitably ending in the great feast hall, but not before leading her on a merry chase past numerous passageways, chambers and cabinets.

It was also quieter in the King's House than it had been for some time because earlier today, King Elessar had set out west with the Elves and the remainder of the Fellowship. Most other guests had taken their leave at the same hour and returned to Gondor, but Lothíriel and her family were to stay until King Elessar returned from his excursion to Isengard, as would Faramir and, of course, Arwen. The Queen had said her farewells to her brothers and grandmother this morning, and for many hours wandered the hills with her father. Afterwards, she had retreated to her rooms, and she had failed to make an appearance at both dinner and supper.

Before retiring, Lothíriel had paced in front of her door for some time, unsure whether the Queen would appreciate company or prefer to be alone. In the end she had simply been too shy to knock, too worried that she would say the wrong thing - which seemed likely, because there was no right thing to say in these circumstances and did she not always manage to say whatever was worst anyway? Yet she found that she could not sleep and it was as if Arwen's sadness was tangible even through the many walls that separated them. To make matters worse, there was a definite chill in the air this night, and Lothíriel's feet were freezing underneath the blankets no matter how much she rubbed them against each other. At last, she decided to simply give up trying. Then she had discovered that lying in bed with no intention to sleep was unbearably dull, so she found herself sliding out of the covers, donning a cloak over her nightclothes and slipping into her plush sandals.

And now she roamed the hallways, past rich tapestries and gilded columns that shimmered softly in the light of her candle. She was careful to avoid the Feast Hall itself, for she knew some of King Éomer's men would be sleeping there, so instead she took a left into a passageway that she had not noticed before. It inclined slightly downwards and Lothíriel followed it to the end. To her surprise, she heard voices and footsteps behind the walls. Before she could decide whether to turn back the way she came, a door flew open and light and warmth spilled into the hall.

A woman in a striped frock appeared in front of her. She was tall with strong arms, and her strawberry blonde hair was streaked with white. Her face was lined and ruddy, but not unfriendly, and her eyes were keen. She seemed surprised to see her and quickly wiped her hands on her apron. "My lady, what are you doing here? Did you get lost?" Her Westron was coloured with a Rohirric lilt, but she spoke it without faltering.

"I was just exploring," said Lothíriel apologetically. "I hope I have not disturbed you."

"Exploring in the middle of the night?" asked the woman with some suspicion.

"I could not sleep," she admitted.

The woman tut-tutted at that and studied her small figure, then smiled warmly at her. "Would you like a posset, perhaps, Princess? I find it usually cures a bout of insomnia."

Lothíriel smiled at the unexpected offer. "You have the advantage of me. May I ask who you are?"

"My name is Alodie. I am the cook here at Meduseld."

"I am pleased to meet you, Mistress Alodie," said Lothíriel with a curtsy. Being polite to the people who prepared your food was one of the most important lessons Imrahil had ever instilled in his daughter. "I do not wish to be any trouble."

"It is no trouble at all! I always have some on hand for Éomer anyway, in case he wanders into my kitchen at night."

"Huh, really?" said Lothíriel before she could stop herself.

"Are you surprised?" asked Alodie, features drawn into a crooked grin.

"I thought the King would be too proud to be found in the kitchen," she confessed.

"Aye, Éomer can be proud, but he'd never be too proud to spend time with his old friends. After all, I have known him since he was but a lad. I had to chase him out of the storerooms often enough."

Intrigued by this account of the stern King of Rohan, Lothíriel took a step forward.

"He is not here now, is he?" she said, peering around the corner.

The cook laughed at that. "No, worry not! Come in, little chick."

Lothíriel entered, amused at the cook's manners. None of the servants in Dol Amroth would ever address her like that, not even those who had known her in her swaddling clothes. But the impropriety was soon forgotten when the door closed behind her and Lothíriel took in her surroundings. The kitchen of Meduseld was large, with a high ceiling, rows of ovens, and several chimneys. Despite the early hour, a few kitchen maids were already up and working dough on a table at the other end. A ginger cat lay curled up on one of the benches and another was loitering around the legs of one of the scullions, begging for scraps. Crisscross on the floor were buckets, barrels and baskets filled with grains and fruits. One of the baskets had spilled over and the dried beans were hastily swept aside into the corner. Kettles and bunches of herbs were suspended from the ceiling, and the air was laden with the smells of food. Galweth would probably grumble at the chaos, but Lothíriel suspected there was a method to the madness. To her, it looked comforting. It helped that it was blissfully warm, for the ovens had already been lit and were heating up, and the kitchen was alight with a merry glow.

"It is very cosy here!" cried Lothíriel. "My room gets so cold at night."

"Aye, it is the mountain air. The temperature can drop rather quickly, I'm afraid." The cook gestured for her to sit down on one of the benches.

"So I have noticed," said Lothíriel, stroking the cat who had come wandering over. "I'm still wondering that my room has no fireplace. I dare not venture to guess how you ever survive in the winter."

Alodie was bent over a small kettle and scooping a spoonful of the curdled milk into a mug. "Oh, those chambers are rarely used in winter. In fact, only very few rooms here have a fireplace and in winter, many will share rooms, or simply sleep in the Great Hall."

"So, how about the King's room? Does he get a fireplace?" Lothíriel could not resist asking.

Alodie smiled as she reached for a jar of spices on the shelf. "Yes, he does."

"I knew it," said Lothíriel, more to herself.

Adding nutmeg and ginger to the mixture, the cook continued: "He seldom lights it, though, and certainly not in summer. The men here are used to being out for weeks in all weather, and the cold does not bother them."

"I guess I should acknowledge that men are tougher here than in the south, but my brothers would never forgive me if I did," said Lothíriel.

Alodie rewarded her with another one of her warm smiles for that. "This climate is just in our blood, I think. And even here not everyone appreciates the cold equally. We can bring you a warming pan tomorrow night, if you wish."

"Truly? That would be wonderful," said Lothíriel.

"Certainly, it is no trouble. Éowyn uses them also, at times. I am surprised Éomer did not think of it."

"You are very kind," said Lothíriel with a smile. She sipped her drink and found it was quite delicious. She felt the warmth of the hot milk and the wine spread all the way down to her toes.

"So the King comes in here a lot?" said Lothíriel. The irony that she consistently used his title while the cook busied his name as if he were a beloved relation was not lost on her.

"At times. He has been sleeping rather poorly lately. Mind, it's been a tough time for us here, and he works hard. Lady Éowyn, too, of course, but Éomer seems to think he needs to save this country single-handedly. He would probably scrub the cauldrons himself too, if I let him."

"Surely not!" said Lothíriel, just a little shocked at the thought.

"Perhaps not," said Alodie, with a wink, as she offered some honey to Lothíriel. "But he certainly takes his duties seriously, and nothing and no one is beneath his notice."

That did not stroke with her impressions of Rohan's King at all, and Lothíriel found herself quite puzzled. "Then Rohan is lucky," she said at last.

"Very lucky," laughed Alodie. "Of course, he could be a bit of a rascal when he was young. I remember an occasion when I caught him here adding spiders to his sister's oatmeal because she had broken his toy horse. He had the nerve to say he thought they would be nutritious." Lothíriel grimaced. Amrothos had pulled something similar with her once, but he had paid the price in full. "But he is all grown up now, and he could not have grown up better."

Lothíriel was surprised at the love and devotion in the cook's voice. "Do you think he will be a good king?"

"Aye," said Alodie. "I think he will be the best we ever had."

oOo

As he often did when he could not sleep, Éomer left the Golden Hall and wandered onto the terrace. There was something comforting about the night sky and he missed it while shut in between the walls of Meduseld. Perhaps he was turning more Elvish by lengthy exposure. That was a worrying thought. Down in the city, Edoras was slowly waking, even though dawn was still a few hours off. Gruff voices echoed through the night air, and fires were lit to chase away the chill of the small hours. It was good to see his people so active and busy. There was no shortage of work to do, and all hands that were able were more than willing to see the country restored. It gave him hope for better days, hope that the better days were already here.

He came to a halt when he saw that he was not alone, as he had initially thought. A small dark figure was sitting on the cold stones of the terrace with her legs dangling over the edge, gazing out to the mountains. She was wrapped in a cloak of midnight blue, her dark curls contained in a single messy braid.

"Princess Lothíriel."

She was on her feet in a flash, the fluidity and grace of her movement reminding him of her brother on the battlefield. He almost took a step back when he saw her face. Her usually lively features were drawn and tired, her grey eyes hard, and -somewhat less unexpected perhaps but still enough to give him a start- she was wearing nothing but a thin white nightgown underneath her cloak. A reprimand about proper attire died on his lips. Becoming more elvish was all very well, but he drew the line at prudishness. "Oh," she said simply when she met his eyes.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you," said Éomer.

"No," Lothíriel's voice sounded thin in the cold night air. "No, I should have heard you coming. I'm afraid my thoughts were elsewhere."

He wondered if he should leave her be. She was obviously distressed and he probably was the very last person to be able to offer her comfort. Then again, there was no one else around and he knew well how painful nightly watches could be when faced alone. He came to a decision and took the place she had occupied earlier, swinging his legs over the side and feeling only lightly self-conscious. He gestured for her to sit down next to him and, after a moment, she did, perhaps a bit more stiffly than before. "Why are you not in bed, Lothíriel?"

"I could not sleep, and then I got bored."

It was a fair answer, and not unlike his reason to be up and about at all, but her phrasing caused him a twinge of annoyance nonetheless. Sometimes any interaction with the Princess of Dol Amroth was like trying to catch a fish with bare hands: frustrating and probably best left to wildcats. He was not about to give up, though. "Why could you not sleep?"

Lothíriel did not answer immediately and just as he started to wonder what he was thinking trying to elicit any sort of confidences from her, she spoke in a soft voice: "I am worried for Queen Arwen."

Éomer would not have presumed to guess at what could be bothering the Princess; even so her declaration took him by surprise. His mind had also been on the Queen of Gondor earlier, when she had not come to the Hall to take supper with them, but he had supposed she merely needed some privacy and time after parting with her kin earlier. It was undoubtedly a difficult path that Arwen had chosen, but no one who had seen the King and Queen of Gondor together could doubt that it was right. He glanced over and saw Lothíriel biting her lip with lowered eyes.

"You care for her," said Éomer.

"How could I not?" said Lothíriel, and indeed she was right.

"It is natural that you are sad, Lothíriel."

She turned to him and he saw now that her eyes were not wet with tears, as he had thought, but sparkling with ire. "I am not sad. I am angry."

"I see," said Éomer, a trifle bemused. "At the injustice of the world in general, or is it something more specific than that?"

She glowered at him and then murmured: "King Elessar should have stayed here."

Éomer frowned at that, wondering where this was going. "He had duties elsewhere. He will not be gone long."

She huffed and huddled deeper into her cloak. "He should not have left her." She paused and then blurted: "I think it is cruel."

Éomer chose his words carefully. "I do not think Aragorn wished to leave Arwen at this time, but Isengard is part of his domain. He feels Saruman is his responsibility, and he had to see his friends and kin to the border."

"Why could Arwen not come with him, then?"

In all honesty, he did not know and he told her so. "Yet time is different for them than it is for you and me. A few days apart is nothing compared to the years they have spent waiting."

"He abandoned her." Her voice was cold as ice now.

"Does Arwen say this?"

She sighed at that and brushed a few curls from her cheek with an impatient gesture. "Of course Arwen would not say this. She would not even feel this. She is too good and too kind. But I am happy, as her friend, to be angry on her behalf."

"Lothíriel…"

She pulled the hood of her cloak over her face. "You think I am foolish."

"No," he said softly. "No, I don't. I think perhaps your anger misdirected."

"I do not know who else to be angry at."

"Why be angry at all?"

"Because it was awful timing and an awful decision."

She sounded so decided, and not for the first time he felt a twinge of envy at just how simple the world must seem from her point of view. Then he tried a different tactic. "You had best be careful. Here in Rohan it may be considered treasonous to speak so of your king."

Lothíriel observed him from the corner of her eye. "You mean that."

He had not been all that serious, but it was true in a sense. "I do. A King's rule is absolute; and it is ever up to him to choose the right path and guide his people down it. We prize loyalty above all other virtues."

"Well, in Dol Amroth we are taught to have opinions of our own."

It seemed she was always determined to misunderstand him. "And rightly, too. Yet I recently had occasion to learn that having opinions on matters beyond your understanding can lead to dangerous situations." And very angry dwarfs, he added in his head.

The implication made her scoff, as he had known it would. Yet she pondered his words with an earnest expression on her face. "So would you really hang a man -or a woman- who defied your decisions?" she asked after a while.

In his mind he saw a man, a dwarf and an elf rise from the grass. "Nay, never, if I believed their heart to be true. That was another lesson I learned that day."

She looked at him searchingly. "That's a lot of weighty lessons for one day."

"It has been a strange time," said Éomer, leaning back on his hands.

"And then you became King."

"And then I became King."

"Does it never get lonely?" asked Lothíriel softly.

"Sometimes," he acknowledged. They fell silent again, but it was an easier silence now. Lothíriel played with her hair and Éomer found it hard to draw his eyes away from her, though he knew not why.

"Come, to bed with you," he said at last. "It is still a few hours before dawn, and you should rest."

"I don't know -," she began. Her eyes were still glittering.

"Your anger will not help Arwen. Set it aside, and be kind and cheerful with her."

She turned to him with a surly pout. "If I were a King with absolute power, I would be more careful not to phrase every sentence I utter like a command."

He smiled inwardly. "This was advice, not a command. You have my word I will not imprison you if you choose not to listen."

He saw the corners of her mouth curl slightly upward at that, at last. "All right. I will consider it." Then she wrapped her cloak closely around her and got to her feet.

"Sleep well, Princess. You may take that as a command, if you wish."

Lothíriel just inclined her head, her face unreadable.

* * *

 _A/N There it is. A lot of less-than-subtle nods to Pride and Prejudice in this one._

 _Thank you for the reviews, and the follows! They never fail to make my day. :-) Terry, although the use of niggard even in that sense might be a bit more loaded now, that is not why the line bothers me. EugeniaVictoria about summed it up in her review - I just feel it's a rather tactless thing to say, especially since Aragorn knows Eowyn's history and past struggles so well (not to mention any romantic entanglements)._


	11. The Talent Of Flattering With Delicacy

"They allowed Saruman to walk free?"

The two Kings were seated in Éomer's study, sharing some sweetbreads and cider. It was just coming up to elevenses, as the Hobbits would call it. Aragorn had this morning returned from Isengard after an absence of ten days, and was briefing Éomer about the state of affairs on his western borders.

"Yes, unfortunately," said Aragorn. "Saruman managed to sway Treebeard's mind, as he swayed so many minds before. Gandalf assured me that we should not expect him to pose any great threat."

"Nonetheless, it makes me uneasy," said Éomer.

Aragorn just nodded grimly. "Éomer, I must tell you also that Gríma Wormtongue left with him."

"Wormtongue abroad as well!"

"Yes," said Aragorn. "I am sorry."

Éomer got up and paced around the room. "No matter. My Uncle banished him and that decree stands. My men have orders to slay him on sight should he ever be found inside our borders again. There can be no mercy for that man."

"I understand," said Aragorn gently. "Although I believe he already has great cause to regret his choices. Treebeard intimated he suffered much at Saruman's hands, who seems to have abused him to vent his anger."

Éomer closed his eyes. "I am sorry for the man he might have been," he said finally. "But he caused me and mine great injury… I suppose I must inform Éowyn. She will not be pleased."

"You need not tell her immediately if you think it unwise. I do not think he will come here." The King of Gondor walked over to join him at the window. "Gandalf believes he will travel west, and indeed, he would be a fool to show himself in our lands. If Saruman does turn up in Rohan, I hope you will send for me. Wormtongue's fate I leave up to your discretion, as it should be."

"Of course, it shall be so. Thank you, Aragorn."

Aragorn handed him another mug of cider. "In other news, Isengard has now been renamed Treegarth, and I have given it to the Ents for as long as they choose to dwell there. You shall find Treebeard a better neighbour than Saruman, I hope."

Éomer grinned. "I am certain, especially since I intend for my people to stay well out of his way." The Ents had been very helpful, but were also terrifying in their power. And as for those orc-devouring trees…

"That is not unwise," said Aragorn, merriment in his eyes. "Legolas and Gimli are headed north, but they plan to return as soon as they may, and intend to pay you a visit on their way to Minas Tirith. Gimli sends you this; they are some plans he drew up for the Glittering Caves near Helm's Deep.

"Ah." Éomer received the heavy rolls with some trepidation. "They seem elaborate."

"I said the same, but his enthusiasm could not be tamed. You may soon have more than one dwarf in your land, I fear."

Éomer grinned. "I will strive to be courteous, even without you to guide me."

"I am sure you will do very well. I heard your old differences had been settled."

"Gimli told you that, did he?"

"Just the highlights, I think," said Aragorn. He broke the last bit of honey-cake in two and gave half to Éomer, who accepted it gladly.

"And Gandalf and the Hobbits?"

"Travel west. I do not know when and if we shall see them here again.

oOo

With all his new duties, Éomer was forced to leave much of the day-to-day care of Firefoot to his young squire, Aldor. On the whole, one of the saddest things about being King of the Horselords, reflected Éomer almost daily, was that there seemed to be very little time to actually spend around horses. Indeed, even going for a brief gallop around Edoras had become a rare pleasure, especially because his guard never allowed him to ride out by himself nowadays. Éothain was already hesitant to let him wander around Meduseld unaccompanied, but he had soon put a stop to his captain dogging his every step in his own Hall. He had tried to be patient and understanding; he knew how the Eorlingas wished to protect their king and lay down their life if need be. The desire, after all, was in his blood also. It just seemed a lot sillier and more cumbersome from this end of things.

However, this afternoon he would be riding out to a small settlement a little way down the Snowbourn with Éothain and the rest of his guard. They were ostensibly going so that he may speak justice in some manner concerning a pregnant mare, but really when the case presented itself Éomer had only seen it as a perfect opportunity to escape the city. The case was so trivial and the claim so convoluted that he could easily have dispatched one of his advisors but Éothain, to his credit, had not protested when Éomer proposed going down himself. Once, when Éothain was in his cups, the Captain had joked that their King needed regular walks as much as his horses, and that was probably true.

So, after his meeting with Aragorn, Éomer and Éothain made their way down to the royal stables. Aldor was already there, of course, and brushing down Firefoot, but he was not alone. Dressed in breeches and one of her brother's shirts, and looking quite as if she owned the place, Princess Lothíriel had apparently finally talked her way into the stables. She was carelessly scratching Firefoot's nose and admiring him, keeping up a constant stream of chatter with his squire, who seemed nothing short of enchanted. The usually hot-tempered stallion also looked gratified by her attention. Even his horse was betraying him now.

"Aldor… what is Princess Lothíriel doing in Firefoot's stall?"

His squire jumped nearly a foot into the air and stood gaping at him as if he were a ghost. This was evidently what happened if you never set foot in your own stables anymore. "She wished to see her horse, you know, little Suldis, my lord," Aldor stuttered finally.

"I know Suldis." In fact, he had kept a close eye on the filly and exercised her himself a few times, also to ensure Lothíriel had not been teaching the mare any bad habits (this had not been the case - Suldis was as sweet and trusting as could be).

"The Princess heard Suldis had been a bit off lately and she was very worried. She knows Elven magic, see." Aldor's tones were quite reverent.

"Elven magic, hm?" said Éomer, looking at Lothíriel who had the grace to cower under his glare.

"Yes. Suldis was unsettled and the Princess she gave her these _gwembuig_ ," his tongue tripped over the foreign word, "to ease her."

"That is no Elven magic, you fool. The Gondorians use those berries to control a mare's heat cycles; the same as we do with whistleweed."

Aldor blushed furiously at that and threw a rather confused look at Lothíriel, who seemed to be torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to flee. Meanwhile, they were starting to draw the attention from some bystanders and Éomer had no wish for a scene inside the stables. He turned to Lothíriel and said in a low voice: "Best run along now, Princess."

She did so, quick as a deer, and her merry laughter drifted into the building from outside. Éomer heroically resisted the urge to punch a hole in the stable door. Instead, he turned to his squire and treated him to his most forbidding look. "Aldor, you will saddle Firefoot for me now. I will deal with your disobedience later."

The boy blanched and hurried to the tack room.

Éothain, who had observed the exchange with far too amused a look on his face, went back to readjusting some of the straps on his horse's saddle. "Do not punish the boy too harshly, Éomer," he said. "He was already quite taken with her, and Princess Lothíriel can twist any man around her fingers if she so chooses."

Éomer glared at his Captain. "Yes. I am noticing you are not completely immune," he said drily.

"Why would I be?" said Éothain, tightening the girth straps. "She is a fair child, and will, I expect, someday be very beautiful."

"Hm," said Éomer, not quite sure if he agreed with that assessment but feeling a surge of protectiveness regardless. "You will do well to remember that fair child is a Princess of Gondor."

oOo

Lothíriel snuck back into Meduseld via the passageways she had discovered near the kitchens. She quickly called in on Alodie, and begged for some honey cakes. Since meeting Alodie, Lothíriel had learned that actually befriending the people in control of the food was even more advantageous than a mere show of politeness could ever hope to be. She felt only marginally guilty about the additional strain her new friendship posed on Rohan's resources.

After her less than formal dinner, she made her way to her Queen's chambers. Arwen had told her this morning that her dress was finally finished and she might wear it tonight, if she deemed herself ready. Lothíriel, who was used to having to sit through several dreary fittings (because she was an incorrigible fidget - said Aunt Ivriniel - or because she always gorged herself on sweetbreads - that was Amrothos's explanation) had been surprised and more than a little pleased. Apparently, Arwen completely trusted her eyes when deciding on measurements and Lothíriel had not even laid eyes on the dress since that first time.

Fortunately, she did not have to rummage through her Queen's possessions, because she saw the dress as soon as she entered. As before, the fabric felt alive as a soft breeze, draping itself around her fingers just so. Carefully, she lifted it off the table and held it in front of her, gazing at her reflection in the full-length looking-glass. Suddenly, the door swung open, and Lothíriel nearly dropped the dress with a start. She sank into a curtsy, half out of courtesy and half to hide her embarrassment.

"Princess Lothíriel," said King Elessar. "What are you doing in my chambers?"

"Sire, I apologise. The Queen told me my dress was ready and I just wanted a quick look… I did not know you had returned."

"Just now. I was looking for Arwen, but I cannot seem to find her anywhere."

"I am sorry, my lord; she is not in the city. The weather was so fine that the Queen went berry picking with Éowyn and some of the other ladies in the woods nearby."

"Ah, that explains it. But why, if I may ask, did you not go with them?"

"Indeed, I was with them, but I left early when I realised I had…" an absolutely brilliant idea that had to be tried right away "…other plans."

"Plans with a dress?" he asked with a hint of amusement. Lothíriel just nodded. Better for the King to believe her an airhead than to learn the truth - even though she had already decided that the trespass had been completely worth any of the trouble that might come of it. Being on her best behaviour and not causing any further diplomatic disasters was all very well, but it had been starting to seem like she might have to leave Rohan without a close look at the horses that made the country famous, and that was not to be borne.

"Never mind. In fact, I am glad to run into you, Lothíriel. I am just come from a meeting with King Éomer and he told me what had passed in my absence," said King Elessar now.

"Oh." It was as if the floor vanished from under her and she was falling, heart in her throat. Éomer wouldn't! Would he? Whatever could be said of the King of Rohan, he had never yet outed her, even when he might have had some cause to. She was still unsure whether it was that which had persuaded her to take him into her confidence.

"He said you have been a kind friend to Arwen in these past days, and a great support. I'm very grateful, Lothíriel; that was well done."

That was so unexpected and Lothíriel was so rarely praised in this manner that she did not quite know how to comport herself. "Oh, It was nothing."

"I do not think so," said King Elessar with his kind smile. "I was not certain at first when the Queen chose to say her goodbyes here instead of travel with us, but now I think it was the right decision. Arwen has truly grown to rely on you, Lothíriel. I hope you will consent to stay with us in Minas Tirith for a while longer."

She felt herself flush with pleasure, or shame, and quite possibly both. She filed away the sensation for later analysis. "I'd be very glad to," she managed finally.

oOo

Aragorn's return was celebrated with a feast in the Meduseld. It would be one of the last, mused Éomer, and it made him reluctant to retire. Fortunately, his sentiments were shared by his friends, and it was past midnight by the time the Hall began to grow quieter. Only a few remained: Lothíriel sat at a table with Arwen, and Aragorn was speaking earnestly with Faramir and Imrahil in a far corner. Meanwhile, Éomer was sharing the last flagon of wine with Erchirion and Amrothos. Most of his riders still preferred mead and ale, but he had grown fond of the heady drink from the south.

Amrothos stretched himself like a cat, and poured the remainder of the flagon into his own glass. "Splendid vintage."

"It should be. I believe it is one from your estates in Dor-en-Ernil," said Erchirion.

Amrothos took another sip. "You are right." He frowned and put his glass down. "It is quite disappointing when one finds out one has been drinking out of one's own pocket all evening."

Some months ago Éomer might have suspected a slight behind Amrothos's words, but he had long learned to judge the younger Princes of Dol Amroth by their actions, and their sincere friendship, and consider any outlandish statements a sort of interesting, foreign varnish. If only he could find a similarly convenient way of dealing with their sister. Unbidden, his gaze settled once more on the Princess of Dol Amroth. Tonight she wore a gown of lavender silk that might have belonged to Queen Arwen. Her curls were brushed out carefully for a change and tumbled all the way to the small of her back, unencumbered by veils, diadems or ribbons, in the style of the women of his country. Éothain's words echoed in his mind, and he saw some truth in them now. Lothíriel was almost attractive, with that dress hugging her curves in all the proper places, and as always she radiated good health and cheer. It was as if the Princess felt his gaze on her because her grey eyes met his and there was a question in them, and that irrepressible teasing glint. Oh, hang it all, thought Éomer, annoyed at the direction his thoughts were taking. The girl was undeniably pretty, but it mattered not.

"We did not exactly plan this right if we are now on the last bottle four days before our departure," said Erchirion pensively. "But don't worry, Éomer. We will have more sent to Rohan as soon as we arrive back home."

"It will not be quite the same without Amrothos taking more than his fair share at every opportunity," said Éomer, topping up his glass with the one Amrothos had pushed aside.

"It is good to hear I will be missed, and appropriate to return the sentiment. Faramir and Éowyn shall pine for each other over the next few months, and so shall you and I," said Amrothos.

"Every day," said Éomer solemnly.

"There is a beautiful symmetry there."

"You had better both return for the wedding at midwinter."

"Certainly, if our father decides he can spare us," said Amrothos. "Unfortunately, it seems father will need someone to manage the construction of the new fleet while he drinks brandy with King Elessar and makes all the important decisions." He swirled the wine in his glass, observing how it caught the light of the fire. "So that's bad luck for you, dear brother."

"I would not miss our cousin's wedding," said Erchirion. "In fact, Faramir has asked me to stand up with him as his witness, so father must adjust his plans if he has any. Perhaps you will be managing the fleet in Pelargir. You are the better seaman anyway."

Amrothos looked like a child who had been denied a second biscuit. "Ah. Oh. Hmm, perhaps you could ask me to be your witness, Éomer."

"I don't need a witness. I am not getting married."

"Ah yes, I forgot. Well, then I will just have to find another way to make my presence indispensable."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Éomer, and to his surprise the sentiment was quite sincere.

oOo

"You must be happy the King is back," said Lothíriel to Arwen.

"Very much so," said Arwen. "Also, I fear I must now insist you will stop sneaking into my rooms at night."

Lothíriel bit her lip, feeling a little bashful. "As you say," she said. Arwen sealed the deal with an imperious nod, but her eyes were kind as always.

At that moment, King Elessar appeared next to them and held out his hand to his Queen. "Are you ready to retire, Arwen?"

"I am ready," said Arwen. She seemed to shine just a little brighter than she had for a while, and Lothíriel was glad. "Good night, Lothíriel."

"Good night, my lady."

From the corner of her eye, Lothíriel observed her brothers take their leave of Éomer, with whom they had been sharing a table. It was very late and with some discomfort Lothíriel noted that she was now alone in the Hall with the King. He made to leave, seemed to change his mind and then walked up and sat down opposite her, all awkward silence and dark frown again. His keen eyes, so alive and warm when he was talking to her brothers and did not realise she was looking, were fixed on her, assessing her every move, as if everything about her had to be judged and catalogued. On very rare occasions, Lothíriel had looked at herself just so, when she was studying her reflection and committing her charms and flaws to memory, and even then it had felt like a breach of propriety.

"You have been glaring at me all night, my lord. I wonder why," Lothíriel could not resist goading him while tracing circles on the table with her fingers.

"Staring, not glaring," said Éomer in his deep voice and she looked up at him in surprise. "It is a becoming gown."

"High praise indeed from the King of Rohan," she murmured, while repressing the grin that was threatening to light up her face.

"You know you look well, Lothíriel."

"Queen Arwen dressed me," she admitted.

"I suspected as much."

Lothíriel rose off the bench and curtsied. "I should retire, my lord. Thank you again for your hospitality."

She made to leave but the King called her back. "Lothíriel, hold a moment."

She turned around, and looked at him searchingly. He was leaning on the edge of the table and his face was stern and impassive. "Ah. Here comes the reprimand." The words spilled out before she could stop herself.

"You have a tendency to jump immediately to the worst conclusion."

"It seems to me the obvious, not the worst, conclusion. Or did you not intend to chide me?"

A look of irritation passed over his face. "You continue to flaunt my commands in my own home. By rights I should do much worse than chide you."

Lothíriel folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Please, my lord, say what you have to say."

"Fine. I ordered you to stay out of the stables."

"You did not. You only told your men not to let me in."

"And you thought, no matter what the King decrees, I will just wheedle my way in whenever I wish?"

She bristled at that. "I had not seen my horse for three weeks because of that edict! Surely you must understand how dismal that is."

"I would have let you see Suldis if you had simply apologised!" His eyes flashed, by now a familiar sign of his rising temper. "But I should have guessed you would try to circumvent me by deception rather than just asking me outright."

"I like being manipulated no more than you."

"So you resort to lies, as usual?"

"I would not lie." She had only embellished the truth, just a little. Half of Rohan was already convinced she was an Elf anyway (this had been an oddly gratifying discovery).

Éomer just looked at her with contempt. "You have lied to me from the first time we met."

"I spoke no lies then either!" she said, because it was true. "It is not my fault that you chose to misinterpret my words."

"I will not play word games with you, Lothíriel. You intended for your words to be misinterpreted, and it is the same."

"How could I know how my words would be interpreted? In case you were not aware, men tend to keep us rather in the dark about such things."

"Do not play the innocent with me! I know you better than that."

"You know me, do you?" she said, innocent as a daisy.

Éomer was looking increasingly flustered. "Do you deny that you deliberately sought to thwart my orders and used trickery to get your way?"

She had no wish to deny it. In fact, right now she very much wished she had done much worse much sooner. "So what will you do? Another lecture? A slap on the wrist? I am not one of your riders to command as you see fit, and you are not _my_ King."

He rose up from his seat and towered over her. "Lothíriel, you forget yourself."

Oh, how she hated the way he always flung his authority around like a blunt axe. But it was a game she knew how to play as well. "Princess Lothíriel, if you would, my lord. It seems _you_ are the one who has forgotten who _I_ am, although I suppose you have never treated me with the courtesy due to my station. It is clear that you were not brought up to be king."

She flushed as soon as she said it. The King of Rohan seemed to grow purple with rage and for a moment she thought he might actually strike her.

"You shameless hussy," he eventually managed to produce with some disbelief. "I should have dragged you to your father that very first night."

In that moment Lothíriel felt all her fury at him bubble over and she could no longer keep from raising her voice herself. "Is this what it all comes back to? Your righteous anger at my deception? Let me tell you something, Éomer _King_. You set that trap for yourself. You had already insulted me three times over before I even figured out what was going on."

"Oh, is that how it is?" He was close to her now and she felt his hot breath on her face.

"That is how it is," she said, carefully controlling the quiver in her voice. "I do not deserve your resentment; if anything I should have condemned you then for your vulgar and impertinent presumption."

"Watch your tongue, _Princess_. You are still a guest under _my_ roof."

Lothíriel wanted to throw something at him, and would have, had she anything handy. "You need not remind me!" she flared.

"Do I not? Because you have been determined to disrespect me from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Pretty curtsies and empty courtesies do not count."

"They are far more than you deserve!" Then she bit her lip, breathed in sharply and recovered her composure as best she could. "I know you are our host, that you are king, a friend to my family and ally to my lord and liege," she spoke haltingly, desperately hoping her voice would not fail her. "And therefore I hope you will allow me to bid you good night now, sire."

She stepped forward but he had her cornered and did not move. She looked around for a way to escape but found no dignified options. Clambering over the table seemed a bit desperate and would certainly cost her the high ground. Instead, she locked eyes with him again. Only then did she notice that his expression had changed. His face was still, his eyes no longer blazing with fire and he was scratching the back of his head with an odd look. "I think I hurt you," he said at last.

"Hurt me?" Lothíriel was taken aback and as a matter of course checked her arms for bruises, wondering if she had missed anything.

"That night. I hurt your feelings," said Éomer, like he had discovered the answer to the one of the great riddles of Tar-Aldarion.

The man did think highly of himself, but she felt her cheeks glow red regardless. This was not a topic she was willing to discuss or even contemplate here and now. "You must excuse me." She tried to edge around his bulk and make for the door.

"Lothi…"

She almost jumped at the old endearment. Only Erchirion called her that still. "You must excuse me," she repeated, almost breathless.

He sighed and moved aside. "Go then."

She went.

* * *

 _A/N Gwenbuig_ _is a Sindarin translation of the Chastetree berry (thank you, Certh!), which is indeed used to ease moody mares in heat. I'm afraid Rohan's whistleweed is an invention of my own._

 _Thank you all for the reviews and follows; and I also very much enjoyed reading the different views on Aragorn. To be honest, I like Aragorn a great deal as a character (aforementioned line aside). I also think he is on occasion sexist in the sense that he differentiates between sexes and holds them to different standards, which is all that sexism is in essentials. What meaning you ascribe to that is up to you. :-)_

 _This was the last chapter of part one! There is a shortish epilogue still to follow, which should be up very soon._


	12. Epilogue

Back in her rooms, Lothíriel tried to order the thoughts swirling inside her head. It was a whirlwind of impressions of the King of Rohan, glaring at her, scolding her, asking her to dance, laughing with her brothers; and then Hethlil's cautioning words back in the Merethrond of Minas Tirith, King Elessar in the Queen's chambers and the candid praise of Alodie, the cook. One memory seemed to be begging for attention at the exclusion of all others. In her mind's eye, Éomer grinned at her as he was cupping her cheek, his dark eyes assessing her, and her hand lightly grazing the thick canvas of Amrothos's tent. Was she angry or was she sad?

She braided her hair back in front of the glass and cleaned her teeth. For a moment she gazed into her own eyes. "You are not so easy to understand, you know," she admonished her reflection. Then she blew out her candle and went to bed.

Over the next few days, Lothíriel and Éomer were unusually cordial to each other. Lothíriel was allowed in the stables and the cavalry courtyard. She, for her part, put Suldis through routine exercises and did not stand on any of the horses, no matter how tempting it was. At the table she passed the salt and bread to him without hesitation, and he complimented her riding skills in an off-hand manner. Amrothos was seen to observe the exchange with some amusement, but in an uncharacteristic fit of consideration refrained from commenting.

On the night before the party from Gondor was due to take their leave, Lothíriel again could not sleep. When she walked out onto the terrace, she saw him in his usual place overlooking the city, blond hair spilling freely down his broad back. It was one of the differences between Éomer and her brothers, observed Lothíriel. The latter all possessed a wiry, graceful and almost hidden strength, whereas Éomer wore his prowess for all to see, in the heavy muscles of his body and the definition of his arms. The effect was not altogether disagreeable, really. With a tentative, sideways glance she walked up to him and together they watched the last rays of the sun disappear into the mountains.

"Are you happy to return to Minas Tirith tomorrow?" asked Éomer after some time.

Lothíriel gazed up at the moon rising from behind clouds of silvery mist as she pondered her answer. "Yes and no, I suppose. I will be happy to return to the city but I will miss this land, and the green hills and the river."

"Edoras has your approval, then?"

"It does indeed. I do not know how it could fail to please. It is beautiful," she said with sincerity. "It reminds me of home, in a way."

Éomer turned to her as she brushed her curls out of her face. It was no use in these winds. "Will you tell me of your home? What is it like?"

She remembered strolls down the beach in the hot summer sun, the cry of the gulls and the white ships on the water. "Belfalas…" she began, hesitating as she tried to find the words to describe her country. "It is both wilder than here, and yet not, because there are so many more people. Dol Amroth sprawls out over the western cliffs for miles. Our summers are warm and the sun will shine relentlessly for months on end, but the winters are wet, and fog will roll in and lie on the rivers. It is all mountains, and canyons and everywhere the smell of the sea."

She felt him study her profile as she determinedly avoided his eyes. "It sounds lovely," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "And strange as well."

"You may see it for yourself one day. You will probably be able to weasel an invitation out of my father."

His reply came quickly this time. "But not out of you?"

She laughed then. "After recent events I have concluded I should gladly leave matters of diplomacy to him."

"I think we all can stand to learn from your father in these matters." It was probably as close to an apology as she was going to get and she acknowledged it as such with a smile.

"I should retire," said Éomer. "As should you." He stood, and before she realised what was happening, he had taken her hand in his and risen her to her feet. He did not let go immediately, and they stood hand in hand, and Lothíriel wished very much that she did not feel quite so nervous, and her pulse would be not be quite so rapid as he brought her hand to his lips. Then he kissed her wrist and she shivered though she was not cold. "Safe travels, Lothíriel. Until we meet again."

"Yes," she said, for what else was there to say?

* * *

 _A/N With this we come to the end of this first chapter in Éomer and Lothíriel_ _'_ _s story. The next installment will pick up in the autumn of 3020, well over a year after their parting at Edoras._

 _Although the sequel has been planned and even partially written from the beginning, I will not start posting chapters until I have finished a first draft for the entire story. This means you can expect me to start posting over the summer at the latest, but otherwise it depends on work and time and just how addicted to writing I turn out to be after all this._

 _I_ _'_ _m very sorry for the wait and hope you are willing to be patient. Just in case you_ _'_ _re hesitant, I_ _'_ _ve listed a few selling points:_

 _First of all,_ _ **yes**_ _, I will actually make good on that T-rating in the sequel. Second,_ None of the Usual Inducements _is set to be anywhere between two to three times as long as_ First Impressions _(I am not sure whether you consider that a selling point, but there you go). Third_ _–_ _and perhaps I should have led with this - there is a minor but pivotal role for Legolas._

 _Further, as a commitment and promise of things to come,_ _ **I have uploaded the prologue of the sequel**_ _, which you can find through my profile. This will also allow you to follow the new story, if you wish, and get an alert when I start posting in earnest._

 _Finally, a huge thank you to those of you who have followed, reviewed, and sent encouragement. Special thanks go to_ _ **BlueRiverSteel**_ _, for her beta of many of the chapters, and to_ _ **OneDayIWillBeTheDoctor**_ _for consenting to be my very first reader and for all those nights of drinking mead and squeeing over_ Lord of the Rings _(and I suppose I_ _'_ _m a little sorry for the Shelob incident). I still welcome constructive criticism, whether through reviews or PM. But I also just want to thank you, whoever you are, for reading my story_ _._


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